Broken Hearts
by S-Jay494
Summary: When tragedy strikes, the team is faced with the possibility of losing McGee forever. As they look for answers, Abby re-evaluates her feelings for their fallen member. When Tony and Bishop discover an intriguing, old NIS file, does it hold answers and it could change Gibbs' life forever? [McGee/Abby]
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:**_ Apologies up front: I publish first drafts so I don't edit. If I spent time editing, I'd never publish anything or finish the story. This will have McAbby so, you've been warned. Also, if you're a Bishop fan, I don't have a handle on her so she is not a prominent character in this tale. If you're a Ziva fan, she'll make an appearance at some point. If you're a Tiva fan, if you squint a bit… maybe….

 _ **oOoOoOo**_

 _ **Abby's Lab-Evening**_

Major Maspec was snoozing on the back wall and the monitors were all darkened for the night. A soft rain was falling, streaking down the windows in spider web patterns. Abby had turned out the lights as she finished loading her cart for her trip upstairs.

The load was light but cumbersome to carry. The balloons alone were a hassle but they were worth the trouble. She grinned as she pictured the design she was going to make come to life. It was a welcome home and an apology of sorts.

It was also, she hoped, the beginning of a conversation that was long overdue—a conversation with McGee… about him and her.

But first there would be celebrating and conveying of an apology for the rotten way they parted nearly two weeks earlier. Abby had spent part of that time figuring out where things went wrong and the rest of it making plans to make things right. Each of those activities were fraught with anxiety as she spent the whole time worrying about him.

McGee was on assignment. In a dangerous place: Afghanistan.

Making that even worse was that he was there without back up.

At least, without his team's back up.

McGee was thousands of miles away assisting another NCIS Agent, Stan Burley, with a case. He needed computer assistance on the ground. The Director had chosen McGee to be that assistance. Without a need for Gibbs or the rest of the team, McGee was sent to help Burley on his own.

Since leaving, Abby had sent McGee a dozen emails. None of her read receipts had come back, indicating either he did not open them or had but managed to trick the system into thinking he hadn't. She was banking on it being the former. McGee was simply too honest to deceive Abby about whether he was reading her messages. He was, most likely, practicing avoidance and ignoring them.

Not that she blamed him. Not entirely.

She had been a bit harsh when she shouted him out of her lab.

She regretted that now.

Which was why she was going to make a big deal about his return, she nodded as she pushed her cart into the elevator and headed up to the squad room level. If he had not read her email by the time he returned on Monday, he would at least be left with no doubt and know instantly upon returning that she was not angry with him when he saw her decorations.

That would help ease any hurt feelings he might be harboring because she needed to talk to him to say more than 'I'm sorry.' She needed to tell him how she was feeling… in her heart.

 _ **oOoOoOo**_

Tony jogged up the stairs to the upper level and cast his eyes to commotion now unfolding at McGee's desk. It had been empty for the last 10 days. Vance had sent Tony's Probie to Afghanistan to help a Agent Burley with an investigation into a security and intel breach in a Marine unit. Burley had been stumped on the technology used; pulling the information out of the ether was not his specialty. McGee, however, had the necessary skills. He was wrapping up his part of the investigation and was scheduled to leave the next morning according to Tony's information. His final check in with the Navy Yard was scheduled for 9 p.m. that Friday night—in just a few minutes, Tony noted as he turned his eyes away from the squad room.

He wanted to maintain plausible deniability about the creative and apparently happy-fueled vandalism occurring below. Abby was at McGee's desk doing… something. Whether she was sweeping for DNA traces to clone her favorite punching bag or setting up a booby trap to spring on him when he returned on Monday, he did not know and did not want to know.

Tony entered MTAC and nodded to the techs as he put on his headset. The darkened screen came to life to reveal a tired and sunburn looking McGee on the other end. He yawned through Tony's greeting.

"McSleepy," Tony said. "Is it past your bedtime?"

"It's 5:30 on a Saturday morning, Tony," he groaned.

"Oh, right," Tony nodded. "You're a few hours ahead of us. I don't see your helmet or flak jacket. I'm impressed and a little disappointed. I was hoping for a little striptease so I could direct and produce a blockbuster for the summer. I call it 'Timmy Gone Wild: Afghanistan Vacation'."

"Timmy's not stupid enough to take them off until he is out of the country," McGee said as he yawned again then he lifted the bulletproof vest. He slipped it over his head. "I just woke up 10 minutes ago, Tony. My bunk is right next door to the comm center. I didn't even have to step outside to get in here so I saw no need to gear up to talk to your guys."

"Why so tired?" Tony asked. "Out partying with the locals late last night?"

"Just ready to head home," he said wearily.

And he was. Sleeping on a cot was uncomfortable, especially after flying military transport thousands of miles from home then being lifted by chopper to the inland Marine base to help deal with this computer security issue. That, along with an unexpected jaunt out to a ship in the Arabian Sea a night earlier and back again, was wreaking havoc with every muscle, every joint and ever sinus membrane in his body. His asthma was flaring and his inhaler bit the dust two days ago. Add to that how he never slept much in a war zone and it all added up to one thing: McGee was homesick.

"Yeah, about your homecoming, you might want to be wary of any welcoming overtures you receive from a certain forensic scientist of the goth persuasion," Tony warned. "They might be innocent, or they might be trap is all I'm going to say. Considering the sparks that were flying before you left…"

McGee looked at him questioningly as he tried to focus his fatigued thoughts on any mishap in the lab that resulted in stray electrical current. He shook his head in a lost fashion.

"That's a good dumb face, McGee, but I'm not buying it," Tony stated. "Bishop clearly heard some discouraging words coming out of Abby's lair, and your name was mentioned prominently during them. You two were on outs the day before you left, and I hear that you've been ignoring her ever since. So, tell Uncle Tony: What did little Timmy do wrong this time?"

McGee hung his head. This was not a topic he liked to broach with Tony. McGee's friendship with Abby was at times awkward and frequently complicated. The latest patch of rough water was his fault—like the majority of them, he supposed. He had made the mistake of asking about her boyfriend, Burt. McGee had not seen the strapping member of the Park Police at the office much recently and had simply hoped it meant the guy was busy rather than something worse keeping him away.

"You're in the Multiple Threats Assessment Center using encrypted satellites that for just a half an hour of air time cost more than you'll earn during your whole career combined," McGee said. "You really think this is the best usage of the nation's money and resources?"

Tony grinned at the techs in the room who rolled their eyes, relaxed in their chairs or chuckled at the scolding.

"No one's going to rat us out so we have time to chat," Tony said confidently. "Gibbs and Vance will be here when it suits them. It's a sign they trust you. After all, I hear you're the guest of honor over there. Poor Stan had to eat sand at Camp Nowhere while you got flown out to the carrier to dine with the captain of the USS Harry Truman."

McGee slouched and tossed a frustrated look at the camera

"Admiral Porter was aboard," McGee explained with his aggravation bleed through the stuttering static transmission. "Both he and Captain Jackson were friends of my father. I was… obligated to accept the invitation."

"Oh, obligated," Tony guffawed.

"Vance ordered me," McGee snapped. "As did my mother."

Tony chuckled and shook his finger at the screen.

"I see," he grinned. "Mommy said so. You ask your mother permission for everything during the day?"

"Admiral Porter is a friend of the family," McGee said through clenched teeth. "My mother knew I was here—I told her about the trip in case she tried to call me and started to worry when I didn't respond. Since she knew I was here and he was in the same hemisphere, she sent him a message. I didn't have much choice once Admiral Porter got Vance involved."

"Uh huh," Tony goaded him. "You'd rather be sleeping in a tent surrounded by concertina wire than safe and warm on a Nimitz class air craft carrier hundreds of miles from a warzone? Right. Not buying it."

McGee scoffed and shook his head as he leaned away from the camera and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. They felt like they were filled with sand. Considering where he was, he did not discount the possibility.

"If I have to be on a ship, I'd prefer it be an aircraft carrier, but I'd prefer even more to not be on a ship at all, so yes, the relatively quiet warzone is preferable," McGee argued, knowing he was simply dancing like a marionette as Tony gleefully pulled the strings. "Listening to my father's friends tell me how impressive and perfect he was while asking me why I never followed in his footsteps is not how I like to spend the evening."

Tony nodded and chose to leave off a jab of how he suspected McGee would like to spend his evenings. The guy looked beat both physically and mentally. Part of that was the trip and part was surely his dinner on the seas. Tony usually forgot that McGee was a Navy brat with a lineage equivalent to that of royalty. He could see the toll the evening with the late admiral's friends took on McGee; Tony even felt for him… a bit. Father's, he knew, were a tricky business. His own occasionally flirted with felonies and women whose husbands were likely to commit them. McGee's father had been a four-star admiral—highest rank in the Navy—and rumor had it he was either slated to be the next nominee for the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, National Security Counsel or the next Secretary of Defense when he died.

"Well, for as uncomfortable as that was, it is nothing compared to what you will endure when you finally come home to face the wrath of Abby," Tony predicted.

"All did was I ask if Burt had the flu," McGee simplified, knowing if he tried to evade more Tony would go into full interrogation mode and make the conversation feel like waiting in line the DMV in one of the lower levels of Hell.

"Wishing the guy to his sickbed isn't going to win you points, Probie," Tony said knowingly.

"I didn't wish him anything," McGee scowled. "I just asked where he was since I haven't seen him around. I said I hoped he didn't have the flu. When I left, half of DC had it, Tony. I was just concerned."

"Right," Tony nodded. "Good little boy scout that you are, you were just looking out for the welfare of the man who may have swept your first love off her feet for good. Yeah, not buying it."

McGee felt his face get pink but knew it was out of anger rather than an admission of any sort. Yes, he cared about Abby. He always would, deeply, and he never tried to hide that. Why should he? They were friends, close friends, very dear friends, and his feelings for her were more than just friendship. They were bigger than that word, deeper than it could ever convey, but he also knew she did not love him—could not, in fact, not in the way that he wanted. Knowing that broke a part of his heart; that it would never heal didn't matter. Most of the rest of his heart worked just fine, and he could still find happiness with most of a working heart—his grandmother Penny assured him it was possible.

"Burt seems like a good guy," McGee said diplomatically. "Abby was going to break up with him a few weeks back if you recall. I'm the one who told her to give him a chance. It looks like she did. I think that's good. I'm rooting for him."

Tony observed his partner with a knowing and pitying gaze. He shook his head and adopted his superior and scolding tone.

"I think you're deluding yourself so badly that you actually believe that," he said. "Abby is apparently not so convinced of your altruism or she wouldn't have sliced and diced you about sticking your nose into her love life."

"That's not what happened," McGee scoffed.

"I'm just giving you some free, friendly advice," Tony continued. "You need to step back and just let yourself heal."

"Heal?" McGee repeated as he rolled his eyes. "Your little guy group is rubbing off on you in a creepy way, you know that, Tony?"

"Look, you've had a rough couple of months," Tony said firmly. "First, you lost your father, and now you're recovering from Delilah dumping you. You've done an admirable job keeping up appearances and not letting that pain show to the rest of the world, but I'm a highly trained investigator with uncanny skills of perception. I know what's happening."

"You know nothing," McGee said but even he heard the defensiveness in his tone as he pulled his eyes away quickly. "Delilah didn't break up with me, and we are not having this conversation while you're in MTAC."

"Makes it hard to discuss it in the parking lot when you're 7,000 miles away," Tony said assuredly. "Look, I know you two broke up like three weeks ago. Know how I know? 'Cuz that's when you stopped writing your long emails at lunch. It's also the time you stopped getting your long missives from her in the morning. No more keyboard chats to keep up with your woman around five each afternoon. No more constantly checking your personal cell for messages. You've come in looking tired recently, but not the kind of tired you get from skyping with her at 2 a.m. to accommodate your time zone straddling romance. You also started staying a bit later each evening as well, which tells me there is nothing else on your evening schedule. Look, I'm saying that I know and that I'm sorry for you. I liked her. She was good for you."

McGee ground his teeth as sounds in the camp began to rise signally the Marines and the contractors were getting ready for their day. With any luck, he would be on the transport out at noon. It would take him the entire day and part of the next, but he hoped to lay his head on the pillow in his own bed by early Monday morning. The last thing he wanted to do now was get into a squabbling match with Tony, but he could see no wait to avoid it short of cutting the transmission.

"She didn't break up with me," McGee insisted. "We agree, mutually, that the time and location differences are taking their toll on both of us, and it's time to evaluate where we stand. She might be posted in Okinawa for the next two years so we discussed things and we're just seeing how things go not… being together… for now. So drop it."

"You haven't been together in the same country much for months," Tony said. "Long distance never works. You knew that going into this. You gave it a good shot, but it just wasn't meant to be."

"Meant to be?" McGee echoed and shook his head. "Now you sound like a radio therapist. I'm fine, Tony. Really. We're just…"

"On a break?" Tony grimaced. "It worked for Ross and Rachelle in the end, but they're kind of the exception."

"Who?" McGee blinked trying to place the names and coming up empty with any mutual friends he and Tony held.

"From _Friends_ ," Tony answered pointedly. "TV show from the late '90s? Tell me you've seen it, McMustSeeTV. What were you, living in a cave?"

"I know what _Friends_ is," McGee shook his head. "I just never watched it much."

"Never watched one of the most popular TV shows of all time?" Tony gaped. "Everybody watched _Friends_ , even people who didn't watch _Friends_ watched _Friends_ because their friends watched _Friends_."

"That makes absolutely no sense," McGee replied but was ignored.

"There wasn't much of an internet and x-box wasn't invented in the 1990s," Tony continued. "At least I don't think it was. What were you doing in the '90s that was so engrossing that it kept you from keeping up on the crowd hanging out at Central Perk?"

"Uh, going to junior high, then high school, then college and applying to graduate school," McGee said flatly as Marines in the Comm Center began eavesdropping on the conversation with interest that only those who had no real entertainment could feel.

"You were still in high school in the '90s?" Tony repeated. "When did you graduate? I was the Class of '86 and I'm only six years older than you."

"Where'd you learn your math?" McGee groaned as he corrected him. "You were born in '68; I was born near the end of '78—that's a 10 year difference. I started school early then I skipped a grade so I was only 16 at graduation, and we've had this conversation before."

"Oh, right," Tony smiled victoriously. "I remember it now. Is that when I found out I was already an NCIS agent (and so were you probably) when you finally lost your virginity? Never mind. Stop trying to change the subject, Probie. Just accept that Abby's happy with her mall cop, so she can't soothe your broken heart."

McGee looked at his helmet and considered putting it on so when he pounded his head on the table it would hurt less. His face twisted in frustration as he sensed Tony strategically pushing his every button.

"He's a member of the Park Police, not a mall cop," McGee defended the fellow law enforcement officer.

It was bad enough that McGee did think Burt was a good guy. McGee preferred it when he found nothing likable about Abby's boyfriends. Allowing Tony to put him in a position where he was outright defending the guy was simply unfair.

"Right, he's a cop that patrols the National Mall, ergo: Mall Cop," Tony nodded. "Look, my point is that you need to just leave Abby to her happiness rather than seek sympathy for your aching heart. After all, rule 12, right?"

"Rule 12 doesn't apply," McGee insisted. "I am not trying to get her to… And anyway, Abby doesn't even know Delilah and I are… apart. I didn't tell her, and I wasn't going to tell her—or anyone. I'd appreciate it if you didn't either."

"Well, I hate to break it to you, but no one else would really care; although, the NSA is surely listening in on this chat and will want you to explain why you wasted millions in tax dollars to have it in this manner," Tony said. "Look, all I'm saying is, just let yourself adjust to life without any chance of getting lucky or having someone who wants to talk to you about something other than work. You'll fall back into that single groove like you never left it. I have great confidence in you, McGee."

The door to MTAC opened and closed with a hush. Vance and Gibbs descended the ramp as the two agents spoke. Neither noticed the newcomers until Gibbs spoke.

"If you two are finished with your online date, we'd like to get back to work," Gibbs said.

"Right, Boss," Tony nodded and tossed a sketchy thumbs up at the screen. "Hang in there, Probie."

Vance's steely gaze was enough encouragement for him to leave the room quickly. He tossed his headset at one of the technicians as he hurried up the ramp.

Tony made his way to his desk. He noted, with some surprise, that the desk to his right was looking a good deal more festive than when he left the squad room several minutes earlier. McGee's desk was now festooned with crepe paper streamers, glitter, shiny pinwheels and a large bouquet of Mylar balloons. There was a foot-tall card with the words "Welcome Home" propped against his monitor. Tony thought about sending McGee an email to correct the intel he provided him regarding Abby's threat level, then decided against it. After all, he had already shut down his computer, and Zoe was waiting for him.

Back in MTAC, Vance received the briefing he had requested on the base's system vulnerabilities. It was as he suspected. The problem was with Simon Corporation (also know as Simocorp), the private security force at the base brought in to help train locals in law enforcement techniques. McGee held his opinion of them. It wasn't his place to say he thought they were likely all rogue cops and dishonorably discharge military personnel. That was sort of par for the course with government contractors in these locales. What he did speak about was the computer security threat they posed and the theory he and Burley had regarding infiltration of their ranks by local Taliban sympathizers.

"I've notified the base commander," Vance said. "He already suspected as much."

"I know," McGee nodded. "He briefed Agent Burley and I not long after I discovered the breech in their computer system. The question is whether anyone higher up with the contractor's administration knows about it or if this is just a local issue."

Vance caught Gibbs cold glance that let him know he wanted his team to take a look at that himself. A case could be made to allocate resources to the investigation as Simocorp was headquartered in DC, where it was primarily a lobbying firm that was close friends with senators and congressmen on the defense spending committee.

"We're looking into that, Agent McGee," Vance said. "Do you think you are going to learn anything more while you are there?"

"No," McGee shook his head as the roar of several engines outside caught his attention followed by the distinctive pop of gun fire.

"McGee?" Gibbs stepped forward. "What's going on?"

"No idea," he said, reaching for his helmet and checked that his sidearm was in place. "Sounds like…"

What he thought it sounded like he never got the chance to say. He turned as the door to the Comm Center flew open. There was an explosion just outside the portal that knocked the camera equipment to the floor. It lay on its side still broadcasting as a cacophony of sounds filled the room. Small arms fire and automatic weapons sounded off camera as a body dropped to the floor at the edge of the frame. The helmet the individual was wearing, the one he had just donned and not yet strapped in place, rolled across the floor obscuring most of the man's face. However, there was enough visible to make an identification. His eyes were closed and his face was swiftly turning a deathly shade of pale

"McGee!" Gibbs screamed.

There was no answer as the feed was cut.

 _ **oOoOoOo**_

 _ **Ramstein AFB Hospital-22 hours later**_

Gibbs stood in the hallway of and sipped the bitterest coffee ever to cross his lips. Germany might make a lot of good things (cars, beer, knives, and bratwurst) but they were no good at coffee. Of course, Gibbs reminded himself, this was an Air Force Base so some of the blame did reside with the flyboys.

"Agent Gibbs?" a man dressed in scrubs and wearing a pair of reading glasses approached him. "I'm Captain Donaldson. You're a colleague of my patient?"

"You're McGee's doctor?" Gibbs asked rather than answer as all thoughts of fatigue and rotten disappearing. "How is he?"

"Critical still," Donaldson nodded. "I'll need a release from his next of kin allowing me to speak to you."

"I'm the one investigating what happened to him so you're going to speak to me with or without a release," Gibbs ordered.

"Marine?" the doctor wondered and discerned his answer from the look in the agent's eyes. "Fine. You're an agent with what? Army CID? JAG corps?"

"NCIS," Gibbs said and held up his credentials. "McGee is one of my agents."

"Agent?" Donaldson nodded and sighed. "That explains a few things. His chart didn't have much identifying information, and there were no dog tags with him or medical information in the database. He also doesn't look like a soldier, but a civilian I can believe."

"He's a special agent," Gibbs said with an edge in his voice. "What can you tell me about his condition?"

"Well, how much do you know already?"

Gibbs kept his expression hard as he provided the barest of details to the man as it was his knowledge rather than Gibbs' own that needed to be filling the conversation.

"He was shot during an attack on a base in Afghanistan… I don't know how many hours ago now," Gibbs said. "It was a chest wound. That's all I have so far."

Donaldson nodded and led him down the hall to a small office where a chart was sitting on the desk. Gibbs picked it up without asking. He could feel the pages were still warm from having recently come off a printer. What he saw was not encouraging.

"He was shot twice actually," Donaldson said. "Once in the thigh and once in the upper left thoracic quadrant."

"A couple inches to the left of his heart," Gibbs deciphered from the screen shots taken from what appeared to be a camera in the operating room.

"That's the entry point, yes, but the bullet traveled," the doctor nodded. "It nicked his aorta."

"I'm going to need that bullet," Gibbs said.

Donaldson nodded then grabbed his phone. He placed a call and ordered the projectile brought to him. The receiving party apparently agreed quickly as the conversation ended almost as soon as it began.

"Amazingly, the full bleed didn't begin until the patient was aboard the USS Harry Truman," Donaldson said. "It appears that it had only collapsed his lung and was pressing on the vascular tissue. Something caused it to shift once he was aboard and that's when it pierced the artery."

"How do you know that's when it happened?" Gibbs asked looking at the hastily scrawled doctor's notes to that effect.

"He would have been dead within 3 minutes of being shot otherwise," Donaldson said confidently. "As it was, the doctor aboard the Truman was paying close attention and when his vitals dropped, he opened the patient's chest and was able to temporarily clamp the bleeding."

Gibbs clenched his teeth at the sterile way the doctor referred to McGee simply at 'the patient.' He understood medical personnel could be detached in a professional way, but Gibbs himself was having a hard time doing that himself. This was not just some nameless, faceless patient. It was one of his agents. A member of his team. A member of his family. As he read further details in the file about grafts and replacement tissue, the anger toward whoever did this burned hotly in his chest. The answers to the who were not going to be found at Ramstein Air Force Base, but Gibbs was not permitted to go to Afghanistan. Burley was heading up that part of the investigation. Gibbs was in a support role this time and that did not sit well with him.

First off, his team didn't know what had happened. Tony had gone for the night by the time Gibbs and Vance got a channel open to Afghanistan and learned McGee's fate. Bishop was on leave to see family for several days. McGee… Well, he was unconscious and going to remain that way for a while. Gibbs' plan was to assemble the team as soon as he had something useful to tell them and tasks to give them.

Ducky would be his first contact. He was planning to send the medical records to the medical examiner at the Navy Yard. Donaldson was allegedly a crack trauma surgeon, but Gibbs wanted a set of eyes he knew and trusted on the medical information, even if most of his patients never recovered from their ailments.

In addition to that, his priority was getting his agent home alive. There was a chance McGee knew or saw something during the attack that would be helpful.

"Primary graft rather than gortex?" Gibbs questioned as he looked up from the report at Donaldson for an explanation.

"Think of it like a water balloon with a slow leak," he said. "If you squeeze the balloon, even if you're holding your finger over the hole, it's going to get wider and burst eventually. The repair job they did was just a stopgap measure. Here we were able to put him on bypass and repair the damage using some of his own vascular material. The human body has parts to spare. We harvested a length of vein from the patient's leg and were able to use it to graft over the damage near his heart. This way, he won't have to worry about taking anti-rejection meds for the rest of his life."

Gibbs looked squarely at the man and asked the question foremost in his mind.

"And just how long is that going to be, Doctor?"

Donaldson sighed and shrugged unconvincingly.

"I don't know," he replied. "I've seen soldiers pull through injuries as bad as this. I've seen ones with lesser injuries perish. We're doing everything we can, Agent Gibbs. He's made it through the initial trauma, one emergency surgery on the Truman, the long flight here and now a second major surgery—all within 30 hours of the initial injury. That's impressive, but it's taken its toll on him as well. A lot of this being a success is on him to fight. Right now, he's doing a damn good job of that, but I'll be honest. I don't know how much he's got left in him."

Gibbs nodded. McGee was a fighter, in his own way. Gibbs knew it was a lot to ask of any soldier to fight something like this. And this man wasn't a soldier but he wasn't willing to give up on his agent.

"Don't count him out just yet, Doc," Gibbs said. "He can surprise you. When can he be transferred back stateside?"

"Not until he's stable," Donaldson shook his head. "The patient will be in recovery for a few hours and then we'll move him to ICU. After that, I'll check his progress. He will be going to Walter Reed?"

"Bethesda," Gibbs corrected.

"Alright, James Conrad is the head of their cardio unit," he replied. "I'll brief him on the case and consult him about transferring the patient."

"Timothy McGee," Gibbs said bluntly. " _The_ _patient_ has a name. It's Special Agent Timothy McGee."

"Of course," Donaldson nodded, dismissing the ire with a wave of his hand. "I'll let you know if there is any change in his condition and when you can see him. Will any of his family be coming to the base?"

Vance would be calling Carol, McGee's mother in a while. Due to the circumstances surrounding the attack, word had not yet been sent to his family about what happened. Part of Gibbs knew he should be making that call, but he would leave it to Vance. Gibbs would speak to Mrs. McGee when he had something to tell her.

"I'm here," Gibbs said simply.

 _ **oOoOoOo**_

 _ **A/N:**_ More to come…


	2. Chapter 2

**oOoOoOo**

 ** _Ramstein AFB Hospital, Germany—ICU_**

Gibbs stood in the darkened room just outside the nurse's station. He had not slept since Friday evening. It was sometime Sunday evening he suspected but did not care to verify. He knew exhaustion would claim him soon, but he was schooled in sleeping sitting up, a skill he learned early in his career as a Marine. You slept when you could, where you could, however you could. The chairs in the waiting room were luxury accommodations compared to some of the places he had bedded down in his lifetime.

Despite the comfort of heat, light and a clean atmosphere, Gibbs did not feel remotely relaxed enough to sleep despite his crushing exhaustion. He scoped the room around him and took in all the noises and blinking lights. The machines beeping and humming did not make the space particularly quiet. Of course, only two sounds interested him. The whoosh of the ventilator keeping McGee breathing and the blip of the heart monitor showing that his heart was still beating.

From what Ducky had told him on the phone in the last hour, both were miraculous.

The medical examiner had answered Gibbs' summons to the phone promptly and had rushed to the office to read the many faxed pages sent to him from the physicians in Germany. It would have been quicker to scan and email everything, but Gibbs' tech guy who took care of that usually was currently in a medically induced coma in order to deal with the pain and shock of his injury and multiple surgeries.

The damage was all under the bandages but Gibbs did not need a medical degree to know this was life threatening, and it would be a while before anyone was willing to say McGee was not brushing against the reaper's blade.

His body was practically hidden under wads of bandages, a web of wires and tangle of tubes. There was blood and medicines snaking into his arms; there was fluid draining out of a tube in his chest. Another tube crawled down his throat and was responsible for the steady but mechanical rise and fall of his chest. According to Ducky, that was the source of any pain McGee's brain might be registering (if he was registering anything at all) due to doctors cutting through his sternum, slicing through chest muscles, spreading his ribs, and then sewing and wiring the whole mess back together—twice.

Per the medical reports, there were two instances of cardiac arrest and three of respiratory arrest on record since McGee began receiving medical treatment in the moments after the attack. They were just notes on a page, jotted down like Gibbs might list the time a witness arrived home or the license plate of a suspect car. He stared angrily at the machines in the room, not because of their existence but because of their necessity. It didn't help him any knowing that the men who pulled the trigger that sent the bullets tearing through his agent were dead. They were disposable pawns in this scheme. What he wanted to know, needed to know, was who the mastermind was because Gibbs' gut was telling him this was not random war zone violence, despite how it looked at first glance.

And that first glance was a doozy, he sighed.

Gibbs had seen injuries in combat. He knew what it looked like when men were hit with mortars and shrapnel. He also knew about gunshots. He had delivered many in his days as a sniper and seen even more since he began as an NCIS agent. What he saw before him made him think of both. How the bullet that felled McGee had penetrated his flak jacket was as yet unknown to him. He did recall seeing the vest on McGee just before the shooting started and the satellite link was lost. Details about the actual scene were on their way to DC along with some of the evidence Burley and McGee had collected prior to the attack. What Gibbs did know was that when he was a sniper, he himself had delivered injuries to the enemy similar to what McGee suffered.

None of his targets ever rose.

This wound was grievous. To call McGee's status critical was a sterile way to void the word precarious.

"This is not a good look for you, Tim," Gibbs said softly as he gently lay his hand on his agent's head. It wasn't a head slap; it was the preferred head pet that his team did not earn quite enough. "You have to fight, McGee. That's an order. Do not let me down."

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _NCIS Headquarters—Monday Morning_**

Tony entered the office just after 7, hurrying to his desk to in the vain hope of Gibbs not noticing what time he got there. He was marginally pleased to see the boss's desk was empty. The chair was still pushed in and the man's reading glasses were not on the desktop either. That was a minor red flag for the senior field agent. When the elevator chimed, he fully expected it to be Gibbs but came up short one supervisor when he spied only Bishop arriving.

"Nice worth ethic," Tony scolded. "I've been here by myself this whole time. I could understand Probie-Come-Lately dragging himself in at the last minute. He was on a transport to get back all day yesterday… or was it the day before? I always screw up those time zones. What's your excuse?"

"Traffic," she said simply as Tony's desk phone rang.

"Very special agent To…," he began then stopped. "Yes, Director…. Uh, okay. Agent Bishop is here as well, do you…. Okay. On my way."

He hung up and left his desk. Bishop rose as if to follow him but was waved back to her seat by Tony.

"You're sitting this one out," he said. "I'm going to MTAC. If you see the boss, let him know I'm not late for school. I'm just in the principal's office."

He took the stairs two at a time, trying to give his gait a jaunty look. Vance's voice on the phone was clipped and grave, even more so than normal. Tony only left Bishop with his parting words mostly to keep her from wondering that something might be amiss or awry for he feared that was the case. Indeed, Tony did not expect Gibbs to wander in with his coffee in hand; he expected to find him already in, behind the locked doors upstairs.

He was not exactly disappointed.

"Agent DiNozzo," Vance greeted him from a shadowy spot near one of the far terminals. "Gibbs, he's here."

"DiNozzo," Gibbs began, "I need you to take lead on this."

He appeared on one of the smaller monitors seated at a desk in a small space. The light around him was sparse but the area had the look of a tiny office with shelves chocked full of files behind him. Gibbs himself looked weary and his voice had a grounded glass sound to it.

"You got it, boss," Tony nodded as he chuckled mildly. "Can you tell me what ' _this'_ is, and where you are? The link feed says Ramstein AFB. That's Air Force territory, Boss. You switching services?"

"They had the necessary facilities," Vance replied vaguely with the muscles in his jaw tense and his eyes bulging more than normal.

There was a toothpick held tightly in his mouth—a habit rumor held he had it he kicked some time ago. Tony knew it was not a good sign to see the shard of wood had returned, especially at such an early hour. From the looks of things, the man had been at the office for a while. Gibbs looked even worse. Finding out he was in Germany (and not even at MARFOREUR-the United States Marine Corps Forces Europe—in Böblingen) only added to Tony's growing sense of dread. The only ' _facility_ ' he knew that Ramstein had that MARFOREUR did not was a hospital that received casualties from the various hot spots where US Forces were deployed.

"You look like stale Hell slightly warmed over, Boss," Tony noted. "Was there an incident inside the Green Zone?"

It was the logical deduction. He figured some overnight blowup (possibly literally) in Iraq had sent Gibbs overseas without notifying his team. Tony had heard nothing on the news as he drove in that day, which told him it was either minor in scope and major in implications, or it was an indeterminate level of both and being kept under wraps by the Secretary of the Navy until there were more questions answered. Neither boded well, particularly with Gibbs 4,000 miles away apparently looking into it.

"Afghanistan," Gibbs corrected him. "Two days ago."

"McGee get in trouble and needed an escort home?" Tony joked but from Gibbs' sour expression and Vance's tense posture this was not a moment for levity. A cold knot formed in his stomach as he looked squarely into the camera. "What happened?"

"Incursion into Foxtrot Camp," Gibbs said, naming McGee's duty station for the previous two weeks. "Three dead Marines, two dead contractors and two dead shooters—all arrived for Ducky last night. Evidence was with them. I sent a bullet on another transport. You should have all of it this morning. You know what to do."

"You got it," Tony nodded. "Any reason you're playing evidence clerk and not McGee? Did he get stuck having brunch with the fleet again?"

Gibbs bowed his head and rubbed his neck. Tony could see fatigue like he had not seen in many years etched in the man's face. There was anger in his expression, but it was not for his senior agent.

"Boss?" Tony prodded, knowing from Gibbs' hesitation he was not going to like what came next.

"The assault on Foxtrot Camp centered on the Comm Center and adjacent barracks," Vance reported. "Besides those killed, there were several others wounded. The simpler cases are on the USS Truman receiving treatment. The critical case was eventually airlifted to Ramstein."

Tony felt a pang in his gut, a terrible twist that told him the worst had happened and there was nothing he could do to fix it. He had not felt this way often, but there two instances that came to mind in this moment: when Kate Todd was killed and when Paula Cassidy was killed.

"McGee?" Tony asked in a smaller and hesitant voice.

"Took one in the chest near his heart," Gibbs said. "They're assessing whether he is stable enough to be brought to Bethesda."

Tony's mind went momentarily blank. McGee got hurt by little things like paper cuts, flying rubber bands (most of which Tony fired at him), and poison ivy. He wasn't supposed to get shot, and certainly not in a way that flirted with fatality. On the job, he was never the first one through the door. He also was never stupid enough to avoid taking cover when shooting began. He all but slept in his Kevlar when he was overseas—Tony made fun of him for it usually; in this instance, Tony had actually seen him put the vest on while they spoke on Friday night.

"He wasn't wearing his body armor?" Tony asked, knowing it wasn't really a relevant question, but wanting to know all the same. "What made him take it off? And what was he doing when… Wait, Director, you said they hit the Comm Center. McGee was leaving on Friday night, well, Saturday morning for him. We were just talking to him. Why did he stay longer? What changed?"

"They attacked the base, DiNozzo," Gibbs said with frustration born more of fatigue than genuine ire.

He had requested to be online with Vance when Tony got the news. He and McGee were a terribly mismatched pair that somehow (either despite or because of their differences) managed to be one of the best partnerships in the agency. For all Tony's ribbing and bullying of his partner, Gibbs knew the men were like brothers (at times rotten, bratty and immature brothers, but they were family nonetheless).

"DiNozzo, you still with me?" Gibbs asked after the silence on the conference lengthened.

"Uh yeah," Tony nodded, getting his bearings as he pulled his thoughts together and cleared the lump in his throat. "So, evidence is either here or on its way. Got it. Uh, Boss, you've seen him? How bad is it?"

"Bad," Gibbs replied. "Ducky has the details."

"You want him to tell Bishop and Abby, or do you want me?" Tony asked.

Vance stepped in and shook his head.

"The information doesn't leave this group for now," he said. "We have a security breach at a military base. Sec Nav isn't releasing any yet, which means we keep casualties and other details to ourselves. We need to know what the evidence tells us first."

Tony wanted to object but knew it would be pointless so he merely nodded. He knew the national and military security excuse like the back of his hand. It was usually just a political tool while the higher ups tried to figure out how best to play and use the information, but that didn't make it ineffective in silencing chatter in the office.

What also kept him from arguing was Gibbs. The man didn't play those games usually, and he would never do so when one of his agents was in the middle of it. As the team leader did not disagree or even scowl as Vance spoke, Tony decided an information blackout was justified this time.

"Will we be telling them?" Tony wondered. "I only bring it up because they're going to put two and two together when something comes in from Afghanistan but that something doesn't include McGee…"

"You'll think of something," Gibbs said.

"Agent McGee's family doesn't even know yet," Vance said. "When I am ready to call his mother, you'll be given the green light to tell Miss Scuito."

"Okay, what about Ellie?" Tony asked.

"It's need-to-know so give her what she needs to get working on the evidence and not a word more," Vance said. "Agent Gibbs will have more information about whether or not Agent McGee can be brought home. Once we know that, we'll let our people and his family know what we do. For now, there's no reason to start speculation in the office or get people worrying when their time is better spent on finding answers."

"Understood," Tony nodded and made up his mind to seek out Ducky very soon.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Tony returned from the secure mail room where all incoming packages were screened. He got the courier parcel shipped by Gibbs the night before then made his way to the Autopsy Suite. There he retrieved items that were shipped with the bodies that Ducky was working on in the next room. He met the medical examiner's eyes briefly and received a consoling look. Tony nodded back in a silent communication that he would be back in a while for a real discussion.

Carrying the evidence back with him, he schlepped to his desk and began triaging what he would send to Abby and what he would send to others for review and analyze. Bishop came to his desk with a stern look. She glanced briefly at Gibbs' desk then at McGee's, which was still adorned with Abby's festive decorations although the balloons were starting to look a little deflated.

"What gives?" she asked. "You're the only one here. No email or messages from McGee, and you haven't started trying to booby trap his desk."

Tony finished his evidence sort as Bishop began sifting through it with her eyes. He lowered his voice and spoke in a commanding but quiet way.

"What I am telling you is the best kept secret in the agency and the entire military this morning," Tony replied. "A base in Afghanistan was hit by two unknown gunmen. They were taken out by the Marines, but not before they did a bit of damage. Ducky received the bodies late yesterday and is doing his autopsies now. This is the evidence the NCIS agents at the camp had collected relating to a suspected breach of security involving Simocorp. I need Abby to do ballistics on this bullet and the ones Ducky is going to send up to her. I also need DNA on the ones from the autopsies."

"Not this one?" Bishop asked looking at the relatively clean if slightly mangled round in the specimen jar.

"I know whose DNA is on that one," Tony said sternly as he looked at the bullet dug out of McGee's chest with disgust.

From his reaction to Bishop's simple inquiry, he knew he could not see Abby just yet. She was highly attuned to the team and his face or his demeanor, no matter how he tried to hide it with a smile or even a terse order, would set of warning bells for her. The solution was to send Bishop and not give her enough information to make her or Abby at all suspicious.

"Bring this evidence to Abby for me," he commanded. "The Boss is not in the building, but he's talked with the Director and me. We're not supposed to let out a lot about this case, so keep the conversations with her short and on task. What she needs to know is that Gibbs wants information about this stuff, and he wants it now. If she asks what case it's for, tell her she's helping out Stan Burley."

"That's who McGee is working with," Bishop said, naturally falling into puzzle solving mode. "You want Abby to peel through whatever's on this laptop for an agent who is working with McGee. Why isn't McGee doing that?"

Tony took a deep breath as he felt his temper rise. He was not mad at Bishop so much as at the circumstance, and he knew blowing up would not help anything.

"Because the laptop got sent to us at the Navy Yard," Tony said coyly. "Do you see McGee here? I don't. So it's on Abby."

"Where is McGee?" Bishop asked looking at his desk questioningly.

Tony looked down and focused on the evidence paperwork he was handing to Bishop. He was still processing what he knew about his partner and didn't fully trust himself to be collected in that instant. He cleared his throat as he thrust some papers at her, placing them on the laptop.

"He's with Gibbs," Tony replied. "I'll have more for you on that later."

"Can I tell that much to Abby?" she asked as she nodded toward McGee's festooned desk. "I think she was really hoping to give McGee a big, warm welcome home today."

"That'll have to wait," Tony said, wearing his false but believable smile as he carefully crafted his words. "If she asks about McGee, you can tell her he didn't leave Afghanistan as planned, but he'll be flying home soon."

"So Gibbs is in Afghanistan?" Bishop inquired, putting together the pieces of information he had divulged.

"No," Tony shook his head. "Neither is McGee anymore. I'll explain it later. I just need you to get all of that to Abby so she can get cracking on it."

"Right," Bishop sighed as she began walking away. "Dissect the laptop, ballistics and DNA on the bullets. Got it."

Tony relaxed slightly as she left, but felt like a heel. He knew he would need to tell Bishop once she returned from her trip downstairs. The harder part, of course, was waiting to tell Abby. He did not relish the task of telling her. Gibbs had basically put this on his shoulders and expected him to know the right time and proper way to break the news. Keeping it from her longer was cruel in a way, but it was necessary. Allowing Abby to worry herself into a frenzy wasn't going to get the data in the laptop out quicker, and it wasn't going to get analysis of any of the evidence done more swiftly either.

He did have a fear churning deep in his mind that made him question all the secrecy between the team at the moment. What if McGee died? From Gibbs' devastated look, it sounded like that was still a possibility. Tony didn't want to hear news of that nature, and he certainly did not want to be the one delivering it to Abby. All he could rely on was a bit of faith, and he wasn't fully sure where it came from. While it sounded like the medical experts were not betting their patient would survive, Tony knew a few things they did not.

He knew McGee. He knew Gibbs.

He also knew McGee didn't defy Gibbs; and (although the man didn't explicitly say it) Tony knew for certain the boss had given McGee an order not to die.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Navy Yard, NCIS Autopsy Suite_**

Dr. Donald "Ducky" Mallard sat at his desk and rubbed his eyes as he finished reading the latest report sent to him from Germany. He was processing the details of it before giving his briefing to the two visitors in his area. Behind them, one of the victims of the assault that was the focus of his day's work lay silently on the table waiting for him to begin their conversation. It would be his seventh such chat in the last 24 hours.

"Timothy suffered a traumatic rupture along his aortic arch," Ducky explained as the two agents stood eagerly beside his desk. "This was caused by the penetration of this steel jacked projectile through his chest wall."

He held up a photo of the bullet rather than the actual piece. It was in a specimen jar in Abby's lab having the requested ballistics analysis done.

"He was fortunate to have been wearing his body armor as it seems to have slowed the velocity of the bullet," Ducky said.

"This doesn't look lucky to me, Ducky," Tony said, looking at the collage of medical photos on the man's desk.

"It does when you realize that without that resistance, the bullet would have torn clean through him and killed him instantly, Tony," Ducky said then held up his left arm and touched a spot just below his armpit. "It entered here, between the third and fourth rib. I suspect the bullet hit the edge of his body armor just where it cuts away for the armhole, striking perhaps as much as half of the bullet on the resistant material but no more than that as the trajectory remained straight. It then passed through his chest wall and the upper lobe of his left lung and finally came to rest here, pressing on the aorta. At some point after transport to the SS Truman. the bullet was dislodged or jarred to the point that it breached the vascular tissue and caused the rupture."

"How did he get hit there?" Bishop asked raising her own arms then putting them on her head. "Was this an attempt at an execution? Were his hands up in surrender?"

Tony sighed and shook his head.

"He was turned toward the shooter and firing," he said flatly as he turned and struck a shooting pose. "McGee's a lefty. Shooter enters in front, pull your weapon and fire. It was a lucky shot getting him there."

"So if he hadn't returned fire but just stood there and took the hits facing forward he'd be okay?" Bishop scoffed and shook her head. "Amazing."

"They'd have aimed for the head once he was down," Tony assured her. "McGee shot back and bought a few seconds which allowed the base security to get there and put the shooters down. The amazing thing is if bullet from the shooter goes one inch lower, then McGee would be back here today whining about jetlag and needing a package of Nutter Butters to sooth his nerves after being shot at in a war zone rather than actually shot."

Ducky sighed as he nodded and patted Tony on the arm.

"Unfortunately for Timothy, that is an inch of luck he did not receive," he said. "However, Providence does appear to have been on his side somewhat. The vest slowed the bullet considerably, thus preventing an irrecoverable injury. There is also the matter of Admiral Porter being within the vicinity and knowing both who Timothy is and where he was."

Tony scrunched his face in confusion. He knew McGee was forced to dine with the flag officer in the last week, but how he played a role in McGee's survival so far was unknown to him.

"Admiral Porter was traveling with his physician, Captain Miles," Ducky explained. "He is one of the Navy's best cardiologists and thoracic surgeons. He sent his doctor to attend Timothy as soon as he landed on the carrier. Call it what you like, but the Truman had perhaps the only man within a thousand miles who could save Timothy when the rupture occurred, Tony."

"Huh," Tony grunted as he took in the information. As he had been taught by Gibbs (and memorized as one of the cardinal rules) coincidences did not exist. "Maybe the ghost of Admiral McDaddy pulled a few strings to make up for a lifetime of not being there."

"Whatever the twists of fate that brought it about, it was the difference between bringing Timothy home on a med-evac flight and bringing him home in a body bag," Ducky said solemnly.

Bishop picked through the files on Ducky's desk, reading the details that she usually viewed in cases. While most of the text referred to the patient as _subject_ or _patient_ , she found it hard to dehumanize this one. McGee was a member of the team, a colleague and someone she considered a friend. Thinking that he might cease to exist was not what she expected she would be doing this day.

"What happens now?" she asked.

"Jethro will call me with any updates regarding Timothy's condition," Ducky said. "The doctors are conferencing on whether he is stable enough to be transported home. They have done a miraculous job in Germany, but the facilities at Bethesda are better suited for a recovery of this nature if only because our blood supply is more plentiful."

"I should give blood today," Bishop offered. "I know McGee won't be getting it, but someone else will need it and… You want to join me?"

Tony looked at her with a wide-eyed expression. His hands tensed on the pages they held and a prickling feeling erupted on his neck. He had given blood once, with the help of Abby and a rather fetching nurse, but that was several years ago. It was not that he objected to giving blood… He just didn't like the idea of needles siphoning off the fluid that made his life possible. He also thought it was a bad idea considering he had once had the Plague.

"I'll hold off for now," he said trying to sound casual. "McGee and I have the same blood type. If he needs a shot of superhero juice to get him through, I'll be standing by to let them tap the keg."

Both Ducky and Bishop looked at him flatly but neither said anything. His attempt at humor was expected and probably, for him, necessary to get through this exercise of learning the intimate details of their partner's medical woes.

"Very well," Ducky said easing out of the discussion onto matters that concerned him more than Tony's fear of needles. "When are you going to tell Abigail?"

"Soon," he said looking at his watch as the lunch hour slipped away. "She's had the evidence in her lab for more than six hours. She should have some results for us. I'm conferencing with Burley in 30 minutes. After that, I have to brief Vance. After that… I'll talk to her. Maybe by then I can tell her McGee is at least on his way home."

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _MTAC_**

Tony sat in the darkened recesses of the high tech room watching Bishop process everything Ducky told her as well as everything she heard from Gibbs during the video conference. News from Germany was still slim. Doctors were still discussing when McGee would be transported. The good news appeared to be that they were now talking in ' _when's'_ rather than ' _if's'_ it seemed. How much longer Gibbs could remain standing (or without committing a felony, in Tony's cautious opinion) remained to be seen. What the team had to report to him was next to nothing as they were still waiting for results on their end as well.

"You learned anything from the laptop?" Gibbs asked aggressively as he fought off a yawn.

"Abby actually just sent an email that's she's got something," Bishop reported as she looked at her phone. "She wants us down there."

Tony nodded while the other two stared pointedly at him.

"Well, DiNozzo?" Gibbs prodded.

"Right, I can do that," he nodded as he snapped his fingers and pointed to the doors. "On it, Boss."

As he departed, Bishop folded her arms and looked frankly at the screen.

"Do you still want us to keep all this from Abby?" Bishop asked.

"I want you all to do your jobs," Gibbs said harshly.

"I know, but…," Bishop began.

Gibbs nodded, taking in her unspoken question.

"Tony will know when the time is right," he said solemnly.

He would prefer if he was the one delivering the news, but there was no easy way to do it. A phone call was too cold. MTAC was not the appropriate place and waiting too much longer would be impossible. It needed to be done face-to-face, and Gibbs was too far away from it to be him.

"She's not going to be happy we didn't tell her about McGee," Bishop objected. "I'm sure she would have wanted to know sooner."

"Want and need are two different things," Gibbs said. "I need the ballistics analysis and for her to figure out whatever she can from the hard drive Stan confiscated. Knowing about McGee a few hours ago wasn't going to help her do that. There's nothing she can do for him right now so she doesn't need to know anything that doesn't deal with the evidence."

"So you're okay with continuing to lie to her?" Bishop suggested.

"Did I not make myself clear?" he snarled. Bishop held her chin up but stepped backward from aggressive and displeased tone in his voice. "I want you working this case by focusing on finding who sent these guys to kill our agents."

"So you're still operating on the belief that Agent Burley and McGee were the targets?" Bishop ventured.

"The fire was concentrated on their assigned quarters and the Comm Center where they've been working," Gibbs said. "It's sheer luck that Stan was in the chow hall that early. The shooters knew how to infiltrate the camp, knew where the Comm Center was and where McGee and Burley were bunking. What does that tell you?"

"It's an inside job," she said as Gibbs disconnected.

 **oOoOoOo**

 **A/N:** More to come…


	3. Chapter 3

**oOoOoOo**

Music blared from the lab as Tony stepped off the elevator. He took a steadying breath and walked toward the sound. When he left the squad room, he had a whole script in his head for what he would say.

Now, his mind was blank.

Well, not entirely. He knew what he had to say. He just no longer knew the right words to use… assuming there were right words for something like this.

"Hey, Abs," he said not trying to sound too chipper. Why perpetrate more of a lie than he had already by keeping some important details from her?

"Tony," Abby said brightly as he entered the lab. "Finally! I sent that email like 10 minutes ago. Gibbs never makes me wait that long."

"You call Gibbs," Tony pointed out. "You sent us email. If you only let him know when you had something through email, we'd still be waiting on answers for cases we closed a dozen years ago."

"Good point," she grinned and turned back to her computer. "At least, you're here now."

"Yeah, I am," he said with regret. "Uh, first things first. What do you have for me?"

"Uh, nothing, exactly," Abby grimaced. "I sort of jumped the gun on the whole: hey, I've got results for you message. Sorry. I mean, I have them. I'm just stuck in the blue screen of death mode right now because our cyber ninjas in the basement across the street are running a Trojan sweep on my server. I already called and gave them a piece of my mind."

She narrowed her eyes and scowled in a tight and menacing way. Tony shirked at the possibilities behind it.

"Do I need to send over tissues and some chocolate, or would a good therapist be a better choice?" he asked feeling the words tumble casually off his tongue with no care behind them.

"I think we're all good… for the moment," she said. "My query is compiling results again so I should have the ballistics and DNA ready in like a minute. While we wait, may I interest you in an encrypted laptop?"

She gestured to the device Vanna White style where it rested on the table. Tony bobbed his head, hoping she was finished with the microchips because the longer this dragged out the worse it was going to go. As a precaution, he had asked Ducky to make an appearance in about 10 minutes as he was certain Abby would need consoling. While Tony wanted to be there to lend support, he still had an active investigation to run.

"What we have here is really… not much," she tilted her head to the side and scowled. "It's your average Toshiba Satellite laptop variety with standard base encryption used by DOD contractors. It's better than what you can buy commercially, but it's really no match for our bag of tools. There is, however, a vault tucked away in a hidden hard drive partition that could be of interest. Or it could just be Geraldo and Capone's vault all over again."

She looked sourly at the laptop before turning her cheerful gaze back to Tony. It hurt to see it, or, more accurately, it hurt knowing he was about to smash her chipper day to bits. Holding off on that for just another moment, he latched onto part of her offerings.

"There's a hiding space in there?" Tony asked, looking doubtfully at the slim computer.

"Not an actual physical vault, but a sector within the machine's memory that is separated from the rest of the machine and no part of the programming talks to it," Abby replied. "It's kind of like digging a hole in your basement floor, sinking a safe that has a tumbler combination lock into the hole, then covering it with cement. You can go upstairs and fiddle with the automated alarm on your house all you want, but it's not going to open what's in the floor."

"So how do we… dig up the concrete?" Tony wondered, his interest piqued at this discovery.

Abby grinned at him.

"Why you need the right tools, of course," she grinned. Then quickly shrugged. "I'm a little lost on what those tools are right now. It could be a peripheral device; it could be a separately written program that needs to be installed; or it could be a combination of both. I'm not sure where to begin. I'll need McGee's help on that. Who knows, maybe he already knows. He and Stan are the ones who confiscated this thing, right? Of course, since he sent it back here without any information, he might be stumped, too."

"Yeah, maybe," Tony nodded as her computer chimed. "So that's good work, Abby. Now, I need to tell you something…."

"Ha!" Abby turned away from him and brought up her screens to reveal what her computers were kicking out for answers. "Ballistics and DNA are back—which you already knew—but now they are accessible. Let's start with the bullets. I had nine 9 millimeter slugs, three 10 mills and five 5.56 millimeter rounds. Wow. That's a whole lotta shootin' goin' on; what was it, the OK Corral revisited?"

"Not exactly," Tony muttered as she continue oblivious to his comment.

"Well, the last five rounds are standard for the M16, your basic Marine infantry rifle," Abby explained typing away to pull up her informtion. "Not surprisingly, nothing in any databases identifying those weapons or their prior usage in any crimes."

Tony considered telling her that the Marines who fired them were not under investigation but opted to keep his lips closed. The shooters were technically in custody; in his mind, being in body bags constituted the best form of custody. Not that they were relevant at the moment. The sooner she gave the report, the sooner he could ruin her day.

"All the 9 mills were fired by the two Glocks marked exhibits 12 and 17," she continued nodding to the evidence bags on the table behind her. "Here's something. Number 17 has a record. It was registered to a Detective Daniel Calvin formerly of Metro PD."

"Formerly?" Tony asked with interest. "Any chance he's in the DOD database?"

He tread lightly on that question. Calvin would be on the DOD radar if he was working at Camp Foxtrot for Simocorp.

"No, the formerly means as in formerly among the living," Abby explained. "He retired in 2005 and died in 2011. Oh, looks like his gun was reported as missing and possibly stolen by his wife in 2013. Dead end there, I guess."

Tony nodded. Dead ends didn't always stay dead.

"Glock number 12 matches these other bullets, but I've got no history on it," she said. "There's no record of a US sale so it's possible it was purchased overseas. I'm not asking how it got through security to arrive on our shores—that's all you."

Tony noted that and let the discussion continued. It arrived by official courier. How it got into the country was not his concern. He did note that Abby seemed oblivious to where the crime she was analyzing occurred. He had to tip his hat to Bishop for that. Apparently, she did as he asked.

"And finally, the 10 mills, for which I do not have an actual gun for comparison," Abby said. "I ran the slugs and if you find a weapon, I can match if…"

Her voice stopped cold as the computer gave her information on the gun, information she was not expecting. Tony's stomach flipped as he saw what silenced her.

"Abby," he began.

"The 10 mills are standard NCIS issue as is the weapon," she continued in a controlled but questioning voice as the picture of the weapon's owner flashed on the screen. "The striations match those for the weapon assigned to NCIS Special Agent Timothy McGee."

Tony placed his hand on her arm while looking curiously at the table with the evidence. He made a mental note to find out where McGee's gun was. He obviously dropped it at some point. The question remained of who picked it up and where it was at that moment… but it wasn't a big question in the grand scheme, more of a momentary mental delay for him to avoid doing what he was about to do.

"It's standard procedure to confiscate the weapon after an agent involved shooting with casualties," Abby said reciting regulation as her eyes grew narrow on him. "The weapon is supposed to be impounded until…"

"McGee's shots are not in question," he assured her. "It's already been ruled a righteous shoot."

He knew he was overstating the truth. No one had even thought, much less cared, whether McGee fired properly. It was never going to be questioned, but Tony needed to sound like there was some order and control in this mess… even if they're really wasn't.

His words had the desired effect. Abby's tension level, for the moment, dropped. Her face took on a soft and compassionate expression.

"Is he okay?" she asked with the hints of worry seeping into her words. "The slugs Ducky pulled out of John Doe Number 2 were from McGee's gun so he hit someone very badly… or goodly… I mean good… if John Doe Number 2 is a bad guy. Is John Doe Number 2 a bad guy?"

She asked with such impressive concern that one might mistake it for the deceased, but Tony knew otherwise. It was the slight quiver to her lip and the intensity behind her eyes to let him know the concern was fully for the special agent. Abby recalled how acutely McGee felt when he shot a cop and the man died. Whether it was from McGee's shot or the corrupt partner who tried to foist the blame onto McGee did not matter to the junior agent. He may have taken a life. That the man in question also turned out to be someone not quite as squeaky clean as his department claimed also never lessened the blow for Tony's probie.

Abby knew what that case did to McGee and how it made him question himself. Tony felt that weathering the ordeal had made McGee a better agent, but he also knew that McGee carried that day with him still in some small way. Abby knew it as well.

"He was very much a bad guy," Tony replied giving her a moment of solace that he knew would not last long.

"Thank God," she sighed as she looked back as the agent's photo on the computer screen. "Oh, my poor Timmy."

It was the affection use of the nickname that only Abby called McGee which told Tony the moment had arrived. There was no right time, but the time to do the dastardly deed was upon him. He took a deep breath for courage and opened his mouth to say the dire things he needed to impart, but he was stopped by the collusion of circuit boards and silicone chips as the computer chirped again, letting its mistress know it had more to offer. Tony believed the system had given up enough for the day and was prepared to drag Abby out of the lab when she turned back to look at the screen.

That's when the world fell apart.

She stepped away from the computer and pressed her hands to her mouth as the latest reveal struck a cold bold of fear in her heart.

"Tony," she gasped as she looked from the screen to him.

Tony stared at the DNA data. Although he was cursing a blue streak in his mind, he kept his face passive.

"Where did you get that?" he asked seeing DNA results blinking on the screen that had just loosed the biggest spoiler alert possible. The ever helpful system churned out a name and a photo for the owner of the genetic code.

"Bishop said to run DNA on the slugs," Abby answered in a trembling voice. She had begun to visibly shake as well.

"I didn't say run the 9 mill marked exhibit 27," he growled. "Actually, I specifically said only do ballistics on it."

Abby's eyes grew even wider with terror as she corrected his statement.

"This isn't from exhibit 27," she said looking frightened as she eyed the evidence on her table. Her voice was quiet and thin, as if there was not enough oxygen in the room. "It's from exhibit 14."

Tony kicked himself. He'd forgotten McGee was hit twice. The less dangerous wound was a through-and-through from his leg. Burley had apparently recovered the slug and sent it with the rest of the casings.

"Tony, the DNA on that slug is McGee's," Abby said with fear saturating her barely audible voice. "Why is his DNA on that bullet?"

"Because it is," he said slowly.

"Why do you think it's on the other one as well?" she asked as her voice cracked.

Her face grew even paler and she appeared on the verge of flying apart in every possible direction. She leaned back on her table for support as her eyes, filling now with tears, begging him for an answer he could not give.

"Because I know for a fact that it is," he said as the elevator chimed letting him know Ducky had arrived just in time. "Abby, something happened."

"To McGee?" she asked in a choked voice as tears welled in the corners of her eyes. "Tony, is that why he didn't come home?"

"Yeah," he nodded as he put a hand on her arm to steady her as much as to comfort. "Abby, there was an attack on the base in Afghanistan. McGee was shot."

She looked at him with wild and disbelieving eyes as she began to shake her head.

"With a 9 millimeter slug?" she shouted as adrenaline restored her voice. "Since when do the Taliban run around shooting people with guns formerly owned by DC detectives?"

"Uh, since Saturday morning, apparently," he said for lack of a better response.

He heard Ducky step into the room and chanced a glance backward. The medical examiner kept his distance as Abby stepped away from both of them. She flailed her arms as she held some inner and desperate conversation with herself before breaking her silence.

"Is he okay?" she asked in a razor thin voice. "Tony, tell me he's okay. Tell me it's just a flesh wound, that he just got graze."

His look answered for him, but he did her the courtesy of responding with words as well.

"I'm sorry, Abby," Tony replied. "I wish I could, but I can't do that."

Her breath came in painful gasps as she began to sob. Tony expected her to fling herself upon him in a crushing hug, but she did not. Instead, she seemed to crumble internally, wrapping her arms around her chest as if feeling physical pain that she need to fend off with counter pressure. Ducky took a step toward her but stopped as Tony halted him. There was something he sensed that did not feel safe. A split second later, he knew what it was she stormed at him and pounded on his chest with her fists.

"How long have you known?" she demanded. "Damn it, Tony! This evidence got here hours ago. You've known this whole time! When did you…?"

"Since about 7:30 this morning," he answered as her fit quickly spent itself into the expected wet sobs on his shoulder. "Gibbs and Vance told me. We've been working the case all day. Our orders were to keep the information close until now."

She mumbled something into his shoulder as the wetness seeped through his shirt. He did not bother to ask her to repeat herself as he assumed she would ask again if it was necessary. He was right.

"How many bodies are in the morgue?" she cried as she pulled her head away from him.

The question startled him, not because she asked it, but because of the mournful defeat in her voice that clashed with the anger that flared in her eyes as she did so. She was devastated and mad at him. He knew he deserved her anger. He also knew he was justified in doing what he had by withholding the information for so long. He offered her his best apologetic expression. The only thing stronger than the anger on her face was the fear in her eyes.

"Seven," Ducky answered her question, stepping into the conversation. "Three Marines, two defense contractors, and the unidentified two shooters."

"Not McGee?" she sniffled, needing reassurance, as her voice cracked again.

"No, my dear," he said holding his arms out and receiving her in his embrace as she left Tony's side. "Timothy is not yet home. He is still in the hospital in Germany. Jethro is with him."

"Is Gibbs hurt, too?" she asked.

"No, certainly not," Ducky replied warmly. "He went to be with Timothy and escort him home so that no further harm comes to him."

Abby slowly exhaled the breath she did not realize she was holding then turned to look again at the evidence on the table. Her brain was screaming this must be a dream, but the pain in her chest was too real to deny.

"Ducky, what happened to him?" she asked in a pleading voice. "How bad is it? He's going to recover, isn't he? Have you spoken to him? Can I? When can I see him?"

"Come, Abigail," he said in his calmest voice as he ushered her into the far room of the lab. "Let us sit down. I will tell you all that I know."

As he passed by Tony, he patted him on the arm in consolation. Tony exhaled deeply then hung his head as he headed back toward the elevator.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Director Vance's Office—3 p.m._**

Tony stepped into the office as directed by Vance's assistant. He was at his desk speaking on the phone. From his grave expression, Tony knew the subject of the call and quickly learned who was on the other end of the line.

"My assistant is arranging a flight for you, Ma'am," Vance said in a commanding but kind voice. "Special Agent Brice will escort you to the airport as soon as you are ready. If you require any assistance, do not hesitate to call my office…. Yes, Ma'am, Agent Gibbs is with him now and will be with him the whole way back… You don't need to thank us, Mrs McGee. NCIS is a family, and we take care of family… Mrs. McGee, you and Agent McGee have my prayers and the prayers of the entire agency."

He disconnected and snorted disgustedly at the device prompting a questioning gaze from Tony.

"McGee's mother?" he asked the obvious question.

"Carol McGee," Vance nodded. "Agent Brice was at the Naval Air Station Fort Worth Joint Reserve Base. I sent him to be there when I called."

"How's she taking it?" Tony asked.

He did not know McGee's mother. Had never even seen a photo of her. When Admiral McGee died the previous Christmas, McGee did not inform his teammates until after the funeral so none of them were in attendance. It was his way of not infringing on their Christmas holiday and also was in keeping with his family's cult of privacy. Although Admiral John McGee was well known throughout the Navy, only select individuals were informed about the when and where of the funeral services. It still amazed Tony that the Vice President, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Secretary of Defense, Director of the NSA and the Secretary of the Navy could all be at a private function and it never made the news.

"As well as could be expected," Vance replied. "She'll be flying to DC tonight… assuming the plane can take off." He turned toward his windows and threw an ugly look at the otherwise clear sky. "Massive storms are descending on the Dallas-Fort Worth area. They're under a tornado watch as well. Not sure the plane can take off even if we can get her to the airport in time for the next flight."

Tony nodded, understanding the ire in Vance's expression as he had ended the call. At first, Tony feared the man's annoyance was due to Mrs. McGee being a sobbing mess. He shook his head at his gaff. The woman had been married to an admiral—a class A bastard of one, by most estimations. That surely helped her grown a tough skin.

"So does this mean McGee's coming home or is Mrs. McGee going to Germany?" Tony asked as Vance turned on the plasma screen opposite his desk and brought up the satellite feed used to communicate with field personnel.

"He's coming home," he said. "They successfully took him off the ventilator so he's a go for transport. Flight is scheduled for 7 a.m. their time tomorrow, that's 1 a.m. our time. They should touch down at Andrews tomorrow around 10 a.m."

"Where are they going from Andrews because unless something changed, there's no trauma center there," Tony said.

"The surgeon in Germany is consulting with doctors at Bethesda," Vance said. "But Mrs. McGee may have other ideas."

"Other ideas?" Tony questioned.

"I'm not getting involved in any of that," Vance shook his head.

Tony nodded slightly intrigued but actually more worried by what it might mean. Regardless of what was decided upon as McGee's final destination, getting him on the right side of the Atlantic sounded like progress, and it sounded like the first positive news of the day. The trick was, Tony knew, sticking to the plans. It was the deviations and diversions that usually gummed up the works. While he pondered those possibilities, the screen on Vance's wall flickered to life and the beleaguered and rapidly aged face of Agent Stan Burley appeared.

"Director Vance," he nodded at the screen. "Tony."

"Agent Burley," Vance said in greeting. "You've made it to Spain."

"Yes, sir," Burley yawned then apologized. "Sorry, sir. Haven't slept much."

"That's understandable, but you're not a pilot," Vance informed him. "Sleeping on a flight isn't a problem."

"Right, sir," the agent accepted the veiled directive. "Any update on Tim?"

"So far, it's as good as we can hope," Vance replied. "He'll be transported home tomorrow. Catch me up. What do you know?"

Burley then launched into his constructed timeline of events the day of the attack. Two Afghani nationals, who were trainees with a Simocorp team, entered the base in advance of their scheduled arrival time. A Simocorp manager, known as a sector leader, had vouched for them and cleared them for entry after they were briefly detained by the Marine perimeter guard. The Simocorp manager was found dead—single, brutal stab wound to his chest, according to the base's chief medical personnel—behind some oil drums near the motor pool an hour after the chaos of the attack cooled down.

After silencing the Simocorp employee, it appeared that the shooters made their way to the Comm Center area. They first entered the sleeping barracks adjacent to it and were caught by a Marine corporal and the three civilian ontractors on their way back from the latrine. Corporal Luis Mendez was unarmed when they shot him. According to the surviving contractor, Mendez got suspicious upon seeing the men leave the barracks. He was joined by two of the contractors, and they questioned why the Afghanis were exiting the quarters of the two NCIS agents at the base. The Afghanis then fired.

"Those must be the first shots we heard when were in the video conference," Vance informed Burley.

"Agreed," he answered. "We heard it in the mess hall as well. Everyone there flipped into tactical mode as soon as we heard it. By the time I was out of the building, it was over. The shooters were down, base security was swarming and corpsmen were checking the casualties."

Vance nodded and snatched a toothpick from his pocket, and snatched it in this teeth fiercely.

"They just started shooting?" he asked. "They didn't attempt to plant any devices? Didn't make any move to access anything?"

Burley shook his head.

"No, sir," he replied. "It looks like after killing Corporal Mendez and the contractors outside the barracks, the shooters just ran into into the Comm Center and opened fire. No one outside even heard them say a word. At that time, only Lt. Davies and Sgt. Marrovich and Agent McGee were in the Comm Center. Figuring out the order of things from the moment the shooters crossed the threshold until the shooting stopped is going to require Abby Scuito's help. From the wounds in his back, it looks like one of the shooters was taken out by base security. The other was killed by someone in the Comm Center. I know Lt. Davies got off a shot as did McGee."

"McGee fired his weapon?" Vance asked, sounding a bit surprised and proud.

Tony nodded in confirmation. He knew as much from Abby's report. Tony also felt a flutter of pride at the information. Not that McGee was one to hesitate when there was a definite need to bring lethal force to bear, but the guy had been exhausted and barely out of dreamland when this occurred. Pulling his sidearm and hitting the aggressor with nearly no warning was impressive for a computer geek who was homesick and needed nap.

"There were three shots spent from his clip," Burley said. "We won't know until we get the ballistics, but I think he got one of the shooters. Seems logical as the guy was 15 feet dead in front of him."

"Dead being the important word," Tony muttered then cut his eyes at Vance to see a muscle bulging in the man's cheek. "Sorry. Uh, Abby confirmed that bullets from McGee's gun did hit the shooter we have designated John Doe Number 2. Two tightly grouped rounds near center mass; a third winged his shoulder."

"The shooters fired 11 rounds between killing Corporal Mendez, the contractors, Lt. Davies, Sgt. Marrovich and… wounding Agent McGee," Burley summarized sadly

"Stan, where is McGee's weapon?" Tony asked. "It wasn't with the rest of the evidence you sent."

"Uh, my bad," Stan apologized. "It's with the next batch of evidence I'm bringing. I thought it would be low priority seeing as I know why he pulled the trigger. Why? Is there a problem?"

Vance looked questioningly at Tony who quickly shook his head.

"No," he replied feeling foolish for what prompted the question, which showed as he explained. "It's just… McGee's a stickler for rules and regulations. When he wakes up, one of the first things he's gonna ask is where his badge is and if his weapon is secure. What can I say, the guy's annoying like that."

Burley looked at Tony with understanding and nodded. Gibbs' ran a tight team, but the closeness of his two longest standing agents was legendary and envied throughout the agency. It truly seemed as if you cut one the other would bleed… then track you down and make you pay for it.

"Was Agent McGee the intended target?" Vance asked boldly.

"I don't know if he was specifically or if it was merely his role," Burley said. "I can't think of why anyone at the camp would have a personal grudge against him. He was only there nine days and spent most of his time in the Comm Center working on the computers. That leads me to believe that this is all related to the investigation. They did go to our quarters first. It was zero five thirty, sir. They might have expected to find both of us there asleep. That would indicate they were gunning for both of us. I suppose it is possible they were looking for someone else and McGee was just an unintended casualty. A wrong place, wrong time scenario."

Tony chewed on that for a second. It was a possibility, and all possibilities needed to be considered, but the second theory Burley offered didn't sit well with him.

"You believe that, Stan?" Tony asked. "You think they wanted someone other than the agents investigating a breech that might be the fault of their employer?"

Burley paused then shook his head.

"No, but what makes no sense to me is why did they do it," he said. "They had to know they weren't going to make it out of this alive. They were on a Marine base, were out manned and out gunned. What could anyone do or say to make these guys do this? They're Afghani nationals. They don't care about a government contract that makes guys in Washington and Texas a lot of money. Something else is going on here, but I'll be damned if I can figure it out."

Vance pounced on that statement as he addressed both agents in front of him.

"You will figure it out, and you will do it soon," he ordered. "Burley, finish your hop to DC. Turn over everything you've got to Agent DiNozzo. You're TDY to Gibbs' team for the time being. DiNozzo, does Miss Scuito know yet?"

Tony grimaced at the memory of the chore he had most recently completed.

"Just told her," Tony said. "Ducky's with her now. I'm not sure we can expect anything more out of her today."

"Then send her home," Vance said as he turned his back on the screen while walking to his desk.

"Hey, Tony," Burley said. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I know you and Tim are friends. He's a good guy. I really hope he pulls through."

"Me, too," Tony nodded as the screen went blank.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Tony descended the stairs to find Bishop lurking by his desk. She had the records of the two deceased Marines and reported she was waiting for similar dossiers on the civilian contractors who didn't make it.

"Do I dig into everyone's background, or do we work just the angle that this is something planned on the fly in the last few days?" she asked.

"No stone unturned," Tony said. "Besides, there's nothing much more we can do until Burley lands with the rest of the evidence. Boss is going to be tired so when he asks for an update, we need to give him everything."

"In other words, you want me to waste time in a way that creates a paper trail to show we didn't do nothing while we had absolutely nothing we could do," she assessed.

"I knew you could follow my lead," Tony pointed at her lifted his phone to retrieve a message. He listened for several seconds then made his way to McGee's desk. "Besides, you never know when something might be relevant."

"What are you doing?" she asked as he pulled open the drawers in search of something and turned on the computer.

"Following the Director's order," he said with heavy sigh the shirked with surprise as the screen booted up swiftly. "Hey, his computer boots up way quicker than mine does."

"He's got a better system than you," Bishop said as though the reason was obvious. "Tony, Gibbs has him hack into some of the most secure networks in the world. He needs more than a basic dual core processor."

"His monitors are better than mine—bigger too," Tony continued to marvel at the equipment that he had never paid much attention to previously as he swatted one of Abby's balloons away.

The decorations needed to go. He made a mental note to toss them out before leaving for the evening. Abby, he knew, was in no shape to do so. The message he had just retrieved from Ducky was what placed him at McGee's desk in search of information.

"So what are you doing?" Bishop asked carefully. "Why does Vance have you going through his desk? Is he…?"

She stopped before uttering the rest of the questions. Considering what Ducky told her about McGee's injuries, the news that he had succumbed would be devastating but not unexpected.

"He's gotta have an emergency contact list in here somewhere," Tony said abandoning the drawers to sift through files on the computer.

"It's not in his personnel file?" Bishop asked.

"I don't mean for McGee," Tony said as his brow furrowed with where he might look for his intel.

He feared briefly that it would be buried somewhere only McGee with his computer McGnome brain could find but was pleasantly surprised when there was a folder on the desktop marked "JIC" that proved helpful. Opening it, Tony found a multi-tabbed spreadsheet that proved to be his target. The bottom of each tab had a name. The data in the worksheet for each name had a variety of contact data.

Tony smiled. His partner, the predictable and ever-prepared Boy Scout, even had notes showing the worksheet was updated regularly. He noted that Abby's brother Luca was marked as "when there is no one else" and her brother Kyle had a note of "away until May 25." Tony then dropped down to another name and took down the phone number beside it. Then, out of curiosity, the peeked at his own tab.

"Hey, he has an email for my father that I don't even have," Tony objected as he jotted it down on the paper in front of him along with the phone number he had just pulled from Abby's page. He then began dialing the phone.

"Who are you calling?" Bishop asked.

"It's not your cousin Liz," Tony said glancing at Bishop's tab with interest, "whose cell number you might be surprised to learn McCIA has in his little database about us. He's also has three numbers for Jake—in case you were curious."

Bishop snorted her lack of surprise. She knew McGee had the numbers; she had given them to him when he explained why he wanted them. He told her that after Special Agent Kate Todd was killed he created the emergency contact lists, just in case, as he thought the single name and number usually held by the Human Resources Department often wasn't good enough. Bishop could see the logic in that and knew the "JIC" list sat boldly on his desktop for ease of access.

"I know about the lists," Bishop replied.

"You do?" he asked waiting for the call to be answered. "What does JIC mean?"

"Just in case," she replied knowingly.

"Don't people label this stuff ICE for In Case of Emergency?" Tony asked with a scrunched brow.

"ICE also stands for Immigration and Customs Enforcement," Bishop said. "He's a Federal Agent. Having a file labeled ICE could be confusing to someone who didn't know what it was or why it was there. Who are you calling?"

Tony held up his finger to silence her as the summons was answered.

"Sister Rosita?" Tony began. "This is Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo with… Uh, yes, the very one, Very Special Agent Antho…. Sure, you can just call me Tony. As you've figured out, I'm a friend of Abby Scuito's. I'm sorry to impose upon you, but Abby's received some bad news today, and she needs, uh, someone…. I was hoping you would say that… Can you get to the Navy Yard?... I'll leave word at the main gate. Just show the fierce looking Marine guarding the driveway your ID, and he will direct you to us… Thank you, Sister."

Bishop looked at him with a soft expression. For all Tony's faults, and she was mentally compiling a list for a while now, he did care about his teammates. She knew he had delivered the news to Abby an hour earlier. Ducky was said to be consoling her in the lab still. Tony likely felt guilt for keeping Abby in the dark all day and probably took the brunt of her reaction when he did tell her. Bishop did not doubt the forensic scientist would forgive him once the initial shock wore off. When that happened, she hoped Abby knew the steps Tony had taken over and above his job on her behalf.

"Sister Rosita?" Bishop questioned as Tony returned to his desk.

"Bowling nun," Tony said. "She's like an aunt to Abby. She'll take care of her tonight. I don't think she should be alone. I mean, when something bad like this happens usually it's…"

He looked at Gibbs' and McGee's empty and quiet desks. When Abby needed comfort of this kind, she would look for it from Gibbs first as he served in a parental role for her, but quite often McGee would go to Abby before she was at the need level of Gibbs. With both men unavailable, and one of them the source of her anguish, Sister Rosita was the last safety net Tony could think of as the rest of the team would be working the case late into the night.

 **oOoOoOo**

 **A/N:** More to come


	4. Chapter 4

**oOoOoOo**

 ** _Sacred Heart Convent_**

Abby curled up on the sofa in the sitting room at the convent clutching a mug with (now) cold peppermint tea. Abby wasn't much of tea or peppermint person, but Sister Rosita assured her it would help, and Abby was willing to try anything; although, she feared in her heart that nothing would.

Her bowling partner had miraculously arrived at the Navy Yard late that afternoon to shepherd her away from the office and give her sanctuary at the convent. At first, Abby didn't think she could talk about the horrific turn her day had taken, but soon after arriving at Sister Rosita's living quarters, the words came tumbling out. Now, after speaking the terrible news aloud, Abby's woes were expanding beyond cold feelings of fear to also include the bitter feeling of regret.

The other sisters who lived at the convent were in their rooms or had walked across the street to the church to pray for Abby's friend. Several of them knew McGee as Abby had dragged him on occasionally to their functions to help with set up. Nuns, as a rule, made McGee nervous. Why precisely, she did not know, other than it had something to do with a teacher when he was in grade school. Abby had laughed at his hesitation around the sisters, and she felt terrible about it in that instant.

In fact, she was feeling fairly terrible about a lot of her behavior toward McGee over the years. The harsh words, the cold looks, the accusations of jealousy all seemed petty and vile to her at that moment. She didn't like herself much for them. However, Sister Rosita shook her head at Abby's weeping confession.

"You judge yourself harshly, Abby," Sister Rosita said kindly. "You need forgive yourself. We always remember our sins more sharply than our good deeds. No one should expect you to be perfect—least of all yourself. God knows we are imperfect. If He can forgive you, what right do you have to carry this burden?"

Abby shook her head defiantly, not wanting forgiveness or for her pain to lessen. McGee was in agony thousands of miles from home, hanging on to life by a thread, so Abby was certain that any heartache or guilt she felt was both necessary and deserved.

"The last thing I said to McGee was to get out," she cried, recalling the moment. Her eyes were swollen from several hours of persistent crying. "I just snapped at him. I do that. A lot sometimes. Why do I do that?"

"Because you trust that he knows you are a good person in your heart," Sister Rosita said. "He never holds those moments against you."

"No, he doesn't," Abby agreed as she sniffled. "But he should."

"No, he should not, and he cannot," the nun shook her head. "It is not in Timothy's nature. He is pure of heart. People like that feel slights and slashes deeply, but they usually view them as symptoms of some deeper pain in the person who lashed out. You know this. You are such a person, too. That is why he cares so much about you."

Abby shook her head. She didn't feel worthy of any care and didn't think this was a time for anyone to worry about her. She felt wretched and that was okay. McGee was the one who needed all the good and positive thoughts, but her mind kept straying from those to darker and more miserable thoughts and feelings. All she could think about were the times she had made him the target of her ire when there was very little cause to do so. She would run hot and cold with him. How he did not get some bizarre temperature sickness from the swings between the two extremes, she did not know.

"We talked the day after he left for his work assignment," Sister Rosita recalled. "You told me you wanted to apologize for snapping at him. You wanted to do that both because it was the right thing to do and because you were ready to talk to him about something else. Did you reach him at all?"

"No, not really," Abby shook her head somberly. "I knew he wouldn't be back for a few days, so I wrote it to him in an email… well a few emails actually, a little bit at a time, in case I lost my nerve before he came home."

Sister Rosita looked at her expectantly, waiting for the next chapter in the tale but only received a shake of the head.

"He never read them," Abby wept. "He never even opened them. I don't know why. I kept telling myself that it was because he was too busy, but what if he wasn't? What if he didn't want to hear from me because he was finally at his end with me? What if I waited too long to figure out how I feel and to tell him? What if he dies before…?"

Her question choked off at the end as she dropped the mug and pulled her knees, curling herself into the fetal position. Sister Rosita scooted across the cushions and wrapped her arms around Abby and tried soothing her.

"You need to believe that God will see Timothy through this," Sister Rosita said as she lifted her eyes in silent prayer that this would be so. "God does not take good men without a reason. Timothy still has much to do in his life. You will have your opportunity to tell him how you feel. You need to have faith."

Sister Rosita knew what Abby likely said in the emails for the two had discussed her friend's quandary with McGee, at lengthy, several times in the recent days. Some people might question love and relationship advice from a nun. The whole permanent celibacy thing surely seemed like it created a serious gap in understanding and experience, but Abby disagreed. The way Abby saw it, Sister Rosita was a nun, which meant that she was basically married to God. Talk about a taking a leap of faith. If someone could understand the intimidating aspect of attaching yourself to one person/soul and weaving two into one, surely the sister did.

Also, Sister Rosita had taken her vows many years earlier, when she was just 22 and didn't know who she might become or where life might take her. Abby admired the blind courage and persistence that took. Her own 22nd year was much further in the past than she liked anyone to realize, but she also had to admit she was no longer the uncertain young woman who started a career in forensics without any clue where life might lead her.

It had led her to NCIS and to McGee.

Or rather, it had led him to her.

Their relationship, the serious and intimate one, had crashed but not precisely burned. He harbored feelings for her. Hers… she covered them up with other feelings and attempted to give them away to others for years.

Like some impervious compound that could not be erased, McGee's name remained written on her heart.

Now, she feared, she knew what would remove it, or rather him, from her life: His death.

A renewed wave of fear washed over her, racking her body with tremors.

"Tell me what you need, Abby," Sister Rosita said.

"I need him to be okay," she whispered despite the protest of her throat.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _DiNozzo's Apartment—11 p.m._**

Tony put his glass on the side table and dropped into his chair. He tipped his head back blinking away the stinging sensation in his eyes as the insanity of the day caught up with him. He looked at the clock. Allegedly, Gibbs was in the air bringing the Probie home. Tony knew he should feel better about it, but he didn't. He admitted to himself that, now that the chaos of the day had settled into what would surely be a sleepless night, he felt as scared in this moment as he had when his day fell apart 16 hours earlier.

"Damn you, McGee," he exhaled with a growl. "I can't lose anyone else."

He just couldn't. There had been too much death around him in recent years. Too many friends and co-workers lost. Kate, Chris Pacchi, Paula, Jenny, Mike Franks. The memories of those lost rose in his mind. Like the feelings in his gut, those thoughts were dark and bitter.

"Dark and bitter are two things that should not be associated with you, McGee," Tony smirked sadly as he stared at the ceiling. "Pale and bland; those are more your speed, McPartner."

In the middle of the bi-polar wave of angst and humor, the phone rang. Expecting it to be Palmer calling to check on him, he answered with a weary voice without looking at the caller ID.

"I don't need a therapy session," Tony said as a greeting.

The voice that responded did not agree. In fact, she pretty much thought the opposite.

"I am fairly certain you are wrong about that," Ziva's voice carried over the line. "It should not be hard to find a professional to back up this opinion."

"Ziva?" Tony gasped as he sat up and shook off the dull, dead feeling that had begun to wash over him. "Why are you calling?"

"How is McGee?" she asked abruptly.

There was concern in her voice that let him know she was aware of what happened. Part of him wondered if she knew more than he did, but the last he heard she was not in the family business any longer. At least, not directly and not full time. What she was doing and where she was precisely were also a bit of a gray area for him—one he had purposefully constructed in an effort to move on with his life after she departed the U.S. following the disastrous circumstances and events surrounding her father's murder and the death of the man responsible for it.

"Holding on, I guess," Tony said. "I'm not going to ask when or how you found out."

"I have been trying to reach Gibbs all day," she said.

Her voice rose in that angry and harried way she got when she was upset and needed to get answers or hit something. Tony half smiled thinking about it.

"He's out of cell range," Tony explained, looking at his watch and wondering what precisely was going on to get the return flight home prepped and ready. "He's with McGee to escort him home. I think Gibbs is accompanying him anyway. I don't have all the details, but I can't see the US Air Force stopping Gibbs, can you?"

"Has McGee said anything?" she asked. "Does he know why this happened?"

The investigator in her was still close to the surface, he noted. He wondered, a bit angrily, if they might know more about the incident already if she was still with the team.

"Last I heard, a machine is breathing for him," Tony replied, rubbing the fatigue from his eyes. "Tube down the throat makes that whole chit-chat thing a little difficult. Maybe if he'd learned some sign language from Abby…"

He stopped himself. There was no reason to get snappish with her. She cared about McGee as well. In fact, when she began her solo crusade to find the man she initially thought killed her father, it was McGee she went to first for help with her off the books operation. The two were as unlikely a partnership as McGee and Tony. Tony had never wondered about the depth of their friendship or where they found common ground. McGee joked his parents raised a gentleman and Ziva's a killer, but there was more to both of them than that quip.

"How is Abby?" Ziva asked boldly. "I did not call her. I thought she might be too upset to talk. I did not want to cause her any additional pain."

Tony scoffed. Only Ziva would think getting a call from a friend during a time of crisis would cause pain. Her lone warrior persona, he knew, was no act. When she was hurting, she would withdraw. The whole 40-days in the desert act was more her speed than holding out her arms to receive a hug, which was what Abby needed.

"She'd appreciate that you thought of her," Tony said. "I think it's safe to call her without doing any permanent damage."

"I did not say it would be permanent harm," Ziva snapped. "I just meant that she can be emotional, and I am not skilled in conversations like that. She is very close with McGee still, yes?"

Tony considered that question. The answer was an undeniable yes. He suspected that even if in 10 years the two lived on separate poles of the earth the statement would still be true. What was going on between the two recently was as baffling as any part of their relationship. Love/hate did not fit. Lust/indifference didn't either. For a long time, Tony thought it might be puppy love on steroids (at least on McGee's part) and something like mad scientist with a favorite test subject on Abby's.

Now, he wasn't sure.

Abby's tears as he gave her the news that afternoon were real and expected. The anguish, too, was not surprising. What shocked Tony was the fear he saw in her eyes—a fear beyond the possibility of losing a dear friend and more akin to losing a part of her soul—and the regret he heard in her voice as she fell into Ducky's embrace was haunting.

"They're still in limbo," he replied.

"If McGee is in a hospital, why is he riding in a car with Abby?" Ziva asked abruptly.

Tony hung his head and mimed slapping the back of her head in reprimand.

" _Limbo_ not limo," he said. "You're still technically a US citizen. Don't you have to try to keep up on the language in order to maintain that status?"

"I speak 11 languages, Tony," she reminded him. "It is also 5:30 in the morning here. Give me a fracture."

"Break, Ziva, the saying is give me a break," he corrected her then heard the slight chuckle. "You did that one on purpose."

"You are very gullible," she noted warmly. "How are you handling all of this?"

Tony sighed. It was a question he was not prepared to answer. He had been grateful that Zoe was not around that evening. It worried him that he felt that way. Now, talking to Ziva, he felt even worse because the things he did not know if he could tell Zoe, he heard coming out of his mouth as he vented to his old partner.

"I'm just fan-friggin'-tastic," he chuckled aggressively as all the anger and anxiety he kept bottled up through the day spewed forth. "Boss took off on about 1 a.m. on Saturday, pretty much as soon as he knew what was going on with McGee, without telling me so I walked into a hornet's nest this morning. I got to keep it on the down low for half of the day while we waited for SecNav to proofread her press release. Then, I got to tell Abby that one of her best friends, someone she apparently has some seriously unresolved feelings for, chest trapped a bullet that stopped his heart and made him nearly bleed to death in a crappy outpost in Taliban country. Now, I'm running an investigation into a company that no one wants to question since they make such nice, fat contributions to elected officials who oversee defense spending. And, oh yeah, my partner is laying in a bed hooked up to machines that are keeping him alive in the hopes that he can be brought home so that, if he dies, his mother can at least say goodbye while he still has a pulse!"

His chest heaved as he finished speaking. His head throbbed and even the last mouthful of scotch he swigged had no effect.

"You are scared of losing him," she said in a soft voice that was full of understanding and shared pain. "You love McGee as family, but there is no time for you to feel this because there is work to be done."

Tony's throat ached as he nodded rather than reply with words. He knew she could not see him, but he was willing to bet she understood and knew what he was doing. If there was one thing Ziva understood better than nearly everyone, it was why the job came first sometimes and the toll that could take. The husky sound of her voice told him all he needed to know. She felt the same way he did: worried and powerless.

"We taught him to duck, right?" Tony scoffed finding his voice and chuckling through his pain. "I know FLETC taught him to shoot; you tried to teach him to throw a knife, but one of us told him, somewhere along the way, to duck when the bullets come at you, right? Seems like either we missed that or he forgot it."

Ziva chuckled kindly with understanding over the line.

"Perhaps we missed that one detail," she said. "It is a good lesson for when he is better. Maybe you could tell him that rather than putting ground Habanero pepper in his coffee or gluing his car keys inside the drawer in his desk."

Tony smiled. _Good times_ , he thought.

"Maybe," he sighed. "Of course, he's gotten a little willful since you last saw him. I tell ya, Ziva, my probie's growing up before my very eyes. He's learning the word no."

"I have heard McGee say no many times," Ziva disagreed. "No, don't touch that, Tony. No, that's not the right answer, Tony. No, we don't have a warrant, Tony… No means no, Tony."

She giggled at the end, feeling a bit of lightness in her heart at the memories. But it was not enough to stem the anxiety she felt for her former teammate.

"Well, he's just using the word no by itself lately," Tony explained. "I've done a little research. All the parenting books say that it's a phase and that he'll grow out of it, but I'm going to have to start grounding him if it continues."

He sighed as the day began to overwhelm him. He fell silent for a moment, and she let him. It was a companionable silence between two people who understood and trusted each other in ways neither could express nor felt the need to.

Tony then sighed heavily.

"I know I should want the answers to why this happened—and I do—but the only question I want a firm answer to right now is: Is he going to live or not?" Tony admitted. "What the hell kind of investigator does it make me if that's my biggest, burning question tonight?"

"Not an investigator at all," Ziva surmised. "That makes you his friend. When tomorrow comes, you will look for the other answers. When you do that, you will be the investigator again."

Tony smiled at the simple answer. She did not give herself credit for dealing with the emotional side of tragedies, but Ziva had a heart. It was a big heart… with a lot of razor wire and claymores surrounding it, but those that got through the deadly maze would always be welcome there.

"Get some sleep, Tony," she advised. "The answers you will look for tomorrow are important. You will find them. I… I have faith in you."

"Thanks," he said, his throat again tightening but for different reasons. "Any chance you'll swing to this side of the Atlantic… I mean, to see McGee when he's back on his feet?"

"Anything is possible," she replied noncommittally. "You will call me if there is news?"

"I can," he said. "Chances are, you'll know first."

"Gibbs must have a rule about not taking anything for granted," she chided. "Call me when you know how McGee is doing. When you speak to him…"

Her voice trailed off as she considered her words. Tony sighed as he filled in the gap.

"Send him your love?" he ventured.

"I do not think he desires you sending him love from a woman," Ziva said abruptly. "You tend to take things too far, Tony, and enjoy making him uncomfortable."

"Right," Tony smirked as he wished he could see her face and the scrunched up expression she was surely sporting.

"Just tell him that I know he will survive this and that I have no doubts in him," Ziva said. "Take care of yourself, Tony."

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland_**

The C-21A rolled to a stop on the runway. The sun was burning off the last of the morning fog rolling off the Potomac River. The medevac crew hurried to unlock the gurney and get it ready for transport. Gibbs shouldered his bag and waited for the crew to start moving toward the door. His neck and back were protesting from sitting in the seat behind the patient bed for the nine hours it took to cross the Atlantic.

Between time changes, fighting sleep and just straight worry, Gibbs was spent but rest was still a long way off. Summoning his reserves, he followed the crew out the door to the windy morning. The air was crisp but not cold. Fortunately, the next leg of the journey, the final once requiring transport, would commence less than 100 yards in front of them. The chopper's blades were just beginning to turn as the team lifted the gurney and placed it briefly into the back of an open ambulance. Gibbs jogged alongside the vehicle as it rolled slowly forward.

As they neared the chopper, the wind picked up as the rotors created a cyclonic current. Two new crew members waited beside it and helped remove McGee from the vehicle. Those in the ambulance hopped up and raced to the chopper to open the doors and get ready for the next flight. Their movements were quick and efficient. Gibbs appreciated the skill but felt a knot in his gut for he knew how they got this good: repetition (and not the kind from practice drills).

As they began to move McGee, one of the new crew with a doctor's insignia on his flight suit, fiddled with the oxygen tank resting on the gurney. Gibbs quickened his step to keep up but found himself blocked by the other new crew member, who pulled down the mic attached to his helmet and shouted at Gibbs.

"Sorry, buddy," the medic said holding up his hands hold Gibbs back. "Medical personnel only on this flight."

"I'm going with him," Gibbs said preparing to flash his badge if his shouting over the chop and thunder of the rotor blades didn't work.

"No can do," the medic continued to shake his head as he looked at the doctor. "We have rules. Doc's in-charge here."

Gibbs turned a stern look on the doctor, who had two fingers pressed against McGee's jugular as the last of the crew from the airplane double checked the straps on the gurney. The doctor could see the tension and strain on Gibbs' face, but there was something more. It was anguish and a fierce protectiveness that had the doctor wondering if Gibbs would draw the weapon seated at his hip to get onto the flight. Anybody who wanted to see a colleague to safety that much wasn't someone he could deny. He nodded at Gibbs.

"You're an IV pole," he shouted, handing Gibbs a saline bag that was hooked to a tube stuck in McGee's arm. He then turned to the medic. "He's part of my crew—for this flight only."

Gibbs nodded once in thanks then helped drop the legs of the gurney before assisting them in lifting it into the bed of the chopper.

"We'll be in Baltimore in 20 minutes," the doctor said as Gibbs climbed inside as well.

The doctor's pronouncement earned a jerk of surprise from Gibbs.

"Baltimore?" he questioned. "I thought he was going to Bethesda."

"Nope," the doctor said. "We're going to Johns Hopkins."

"Why?" Gibbs asked.

"I don't make the decisions," the doctor said. "I just make sure transport is as smooth as possible."

Further questions about the change in destination stopped as Gibbs's concern shifted to what the doctor was doing. He stopped with his pulse check then pulled the oxygen mask off McGee's face; he then replaced it with a ventilation bag as the others locked the gurney into place for the flight. The doctor spied the flare of alarm in Gibb's weary and haunted eyes.

"Just a precaution—a little positive pressure ventilation," the doctor said over the noise while squeezing the bag rhythmically as he gave Gibbs a quick thumbs up. "Transfers can be stressful, but he's doing okay."

Gibbs nodded as he bowed his head with fatigue. McGee appeared oblivious as he eyes remained closed, much as they had since the first moment Gibbs saw him in Germany four days earlier. The veteran agent sat on the narrow bench opposite the gurney and grabbed the seat strap to keep his balance while sporting the saline bag on his shoulder the way they had in the Corps for administering basic aid to those downed in the field. The doctor, kneeling beside McGee, watched him with interest and jerked his chin at him.

"Paramedic?" he wondered.

"Basic training," Gibbs shook his head.

"Marine?" the doctor guessed. "Active?"

"Retired Gunnery Sergeant," Gibbs said. "NCIS now. This is one of my agents."

"Your agent is in good hands, Gunny," the doctor assured him. "We're bringing him Dr. Susan Westlake—trust me, there's no one better."

"I thought he was going to a doctor named Conrad," Gibbs said with alarm, recalling Donaldson's assurances in Germany.

"Change of plans I guess, but just between us, that's a good thing," the doctor nodded. "Believe me, Johns Hopkins is one of the best hospitals in the country. If I needed a treating physician, Westlake would be my first choice. She can work miracles, Gunny."

"She better," Gibbs said mostly to himself as he looked out the window the ground gave way to the sky.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	5. Chapter 5

**oOoOoOo**

 ** _Johns Hopkins University Hospital—Baltimore, MD_**

The chopper touched down, buffeted by the wind, atop the building. Much as the loading of the helicopter at Andrews, the unloading was swift and uneventful. The flight crew handed off their cargo with machine-like precision. The team from Johns Hopkins took control and moved toward the automatic doors. Gibbs followed as the commotion of the chopper faded and the rapid voices of the new team filled the air.

Someone took the fluid bag from Gibbs and nudged him back. He stroke his hand across his face as he watched with a critical eye as they hustled down the hall toward the elevator. A woman in her mid-50's with salt and pepper hair wearing scrubs and a lab coat bearing the name tag S. Westlake lifted the stethoscope that was draped over her neck then began an examination. Her voice was calm, controlled, and shockingly soft compared the cacophony of their arrival.

"I've got slightly decreased breath sounds on the left," Westlake said quietly to the team hovering around her waiting for orders. "I want a chest film. He's an asthmatic so let's make sure all that time on the vent didn't sprout pneumonia. Give me a CHEM-7 panel. He's got peripheral cyanosis of the nail beds and lips so up his O-2 to 40 percent."

Westlake then rounded sharply on Gibbs before he could enter the elevator car.

"You're Gibbs?" she asked abruptly. He nodded curtly. "What's he called?"

"McGee," he said as concern about the woman's competence burned in his eyes at her lack of knowledge of something as basic as her patient's name.

She shook her head and scoffed.

"No, I'm not looking for the testosterone and locker room answer," she said. "His mother calls him Timothy. Is that what a friend would call him?"

Gibbs shook his head as he realized what she was seeking. A flurry of names filled his head from Elf Lord to Probie, but only one voice could speak those names as a friend.

"No," he said. "Call him Tim."

"Have you been speaking with him?" she asked.

"He's unconscious," Gibbs shook his head.

"Amateur," she snorted but not unkindly as she winked at him then shoved past him as she approached the gurney; however, she jerked her head for him to get into the elevator.

Westlake turned her attention to the patient and shifted her voice into a more cheerful and louder tone as the elevator doors closed, and they began their descent.

"Tim, you're at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Balitmore, Maryland," she said. "My name is Dr. Westlake. I figured I'd introduce myself since we're going to be spending a lot of time together over the next few days. For future reference, I like chocolate covered strawberries and daffodils, you know, for when you want to thank me for you getting better so fast. Your mom tells me that you're a smart guy so I expect you to remember that. Now, I know you're tired, but I like to play games to get to know people. Here are the rules: I ask you questions, and you squeeze your left hand for a 'yes' answer and your 'right' for a no. So let's start. Can you hear me okay?"

Westlake paused as the elevator descended through another floor. She nodded after a moment.

"Good, Tim," she said and looked knowingly at Gibbs, who inferred that she got an acceptable response. That she got any response at surprised Gibbs.

He figured out what she was doing in addition to communicating. She was assessing.

"Next question," Westlake said brightly. "Is this your first time in Baltimore?"

Again, she nodded a moment later when there was a response she approved of.

"Oh, that's right," Westlake chuckled as a satisfied smile appeared on her face. "You're an alumni of the University. Well, then so much for me sweeping you off your feet by claiming I can show you our wild and exotic city."

One of the attendants with her mouthed some words that Gibbs took for a blood pressure reading; the information seemed to please the doctor. She held up her hands in an 'okay' sign before returning her hands to McGee's. The elevator chimed, and the doors opened.

"Alright, Tim, we're almost at our first destination—this is sort of like our first date, so be on your best behavior," she said as the group made their way slowly out of the elevator. They moved down the hall like a tightly packed peloton. "You're going to figure out quickly that I love my job. I get pretty pumped when I get someone to take care of. So here's the plan. The next few days are all about you and me, Tim. This is our big production. I'm the director, and you're the star. I've got a lot of exciting things coming up for you. First, some glamour shots of your chest in the form of a few quick x-rays. Feel free to smile during them. After your close ups are done, I'm going run a couple blood tests. You can sack out during that—we'll make the machines do all the work. When that is over, I have an amazing room reserved and set up just for you. You can brag about it later, because it has the best view in the entire place—it looks directly at the hallway that leads to my office. Here's a little secret for you: I only let special guests have this room."

She looked up and saw Gibbs staring at her as they made their way toward the procedure room. She wasn't sure what to make of his look. It was part confused, part 'lady you're nuts', and part something else she couldn't quite place. If not for the hard bitten set of his jaw, she might call it relief.

"Does all that work for you, Tim?" she asked. "Left hand squeeze is yes. Right hand is no, and to mix things up a bit both hands is ' _shut up you beautiful smart ass_.' So, are you on board with our fun-filled agenda for the morning?"

She paused as she took both of his hands in hers and waited for a response. After a moment, she felt a slight pressure from his left hand then a breath later something more that raised a smile on her face.

"Oh, so that's how it's going to be," she chuckled as she pet his forearm. "We're going get along fine, Tim. My assistant, Elsie, is going to take you through your paparazzi appointment. I'll be back to chat in a bit."

She fell behind as the other attendants closed the door, leaving Gibbs in the hall feeling suddenly lost and a bit disoriented. Westlake approached him with a frank expression.

"What's the verdict?" Gibbs asked.

"Basic cognitive function is working, and he has motor control of his upper extremities," Westlake reported. "He understands on some level what we're doing, and apparently he thinks I'm a smart ass who talks a lot."

"Back up," Gibbs cut in. "Cognitive function and motor control? He got shot in the chest not in the head."

She sighed and looked at him with a pitying expression rather than a superior one. She nodded as she explained in a rudimentary fashion why she mentioned those assessments.

"He lost a lot of blood when his artery ruptured," she said. "That can result in a stroke like state for the brain and in a high rate of paraplegia. Our brains need blood to survive and our spinal cords are extremely sensitive to ischemia as well. That level of blood loss can lead to irreversible nerve damage."

For Gibbs, the news felt like a punch to the gut. It sounded like a new problem to him but some part of his mind thought it might recall a passing mention of it by Ducky in their discussion several days earlier. Maybe. Or maybe it was a stray memory from an old case, a victim who suffered a similar injury and made it to Ducky's slab. Westlake watched him process her words as he scrubbed his hand over the stubble on his chin.

"Why was he moved if…," Gibbs began but was interrupted.

"I was brought on this case after you were already in flight," she said. "I took it because I think Tim is an excellent candidate for survival and, I hope, complete recovery. That being said, I liked his chances better before military doctors decide to put him on a stressful transatlantic flight just 48 hours post-op from his second thoracic procedure. If he was my patient from the start, I wouldn't have moved him."

Gibbs clenched his jaw. He knew the military didn't always give the best medical care, but they knew about trauma and putting soldiers back together. He did not know the survival rate statistic, but it never occurred him to check them. He swallowed his rising doubt as there was nothing he could do to fix what had already occurred. The doctor saw his internal conflict in the wild shifting of his eyes.

"There's only a 15 percent survival rate immediately after this kind of traumatic rupture," Westlake explained. "Most of those die before ever reaching the hospital. Your colleague has defied a lot of odds already, and he is not showing any signs of breaking that streak. He's got use of his hands and understood at least some of what I was saying. We're checking for lower paralysis now. From what I seen from him so far, I'm inspired with confidence."

Gibbs sighed and looked down at his shoes as he tried to organize his thoughts while considering that McGee might have additional battles to fight: scrambled brains and loss of motor function. Neither were things Gibbs or the team could fix and either would remove McGee from the team permanently. A new weight of worry pressed on Gibbs' shoulders.

"There are still a lot of tests to run," she said with the hints of sympathy. "I understand you've been within him through most of this. That's good. He needed to know someone was there. You can stand down now, Agent Gibbs. Go home. We'll take care of him."

"His mother isn't here yet," Gibbs said, having received that message from Vance about storms that delayed her arrival. "Does she know he's here?"

Carol McGee's ETA was in another two hours. McGee's sister, Sarah, was also not in the vicinity as she was stuck on the west coast and meeting the same weather delays.

"Mrs. McGee, through a friend, arranged for Tim to be brought here," the doctor said. "A million years ago when I was in medical school, I dated a naval cadet. He's a friend of the McGee family these days so, Paul got in touch with me about the case. I'm glad he did. The Navy has plenty of capable doctors, but Tim's better off here—just don't let anyone know one of their admirals agrees. "

"Admiral?" Gibbs blinked. "What admiral?"

His thoughts were fuzzy and not sufficiently linear to stay focused for too long on anything other than his agent and who was taking custody of him. The only admiral he could think of that might have had any concern regarding McGee was his father (and even that seemed debatable in recent years), but the man was now dead.

"Paul Porter," Westlake said dismissively.

Gibbs chewed on that information briefly. He had heard the man's name mentioned recently, but in his hazy state could not place where precisely.

Westlake fought the urge to take Gibb's pulse and check his pupils as the man appeared to be on the verge of passing out, but there was a defiance in his posture and a determination in his eyes that let her know he would not allow her nor would he allow himself to succumb to the effects of the extreme sleep deprivation plaguing him.

"You're spent," she noted. "I know you haven't left Tim's side since you got to Germany. Your devotion to your employee is commendable, but…"

"He's my agent," Gibbs said with emphasis, his words coming out in a commanding growl that had the force of a punch. "He's a member of my team."

Westlake took in his tone and the adamant set to his tired eyes. She knew what she was looking at for she had seen something like it before: a hardcore workaholic detective who likely had adopted subordinates as family. Nothing short of dynamite was going to move him from the hospital until appropriate reinforcements arrived. From the intensity of his glare, he was not pleased his agent was now behind closed doors where he could not watch over him.

"You can trust us," the doctor assured him. "We know what we're doing. This isn't my first…"

"He is seriously hurt," Gibbs said cutting her off pointedly as anger flared in his eyes. "He doesn't need flirting remarks about flowers and…"

"I was told you didn't speak much," she shook her head, speaking over his objections without listening to him. "This bitching must be the result of the fatigue."

"…He needs a doctor who knows what she's doing," Gibbs finished then glared at her as he registered she had been speaking. "What?"

She had expected the push back and figured it was a sign of how tired the man was that it took this long for the fireworks to start. She could see he didn't have much left and saw no reason for him to waste what sparks did remain in his arsenal.

"You don't like my bedside manner?" Westlake asked as she stood toe-to-toe with him. "Well, tough. The people in that room are my hand-picked team. We're cleared to treat the President of the United States if he was ever in such need. That's not a boast. It's a fact. So is this: Tim's safe, and he's being taken care of by some of the best there is."

Gibbs huffed and ran his hand through his hair as he felt the crushing exhaustion he had been fighting for the last several days press heavily upon him. He clenched his jaw then held up his hands to show he was backing off… slightly.

"Some doctors have one setting and run on it for all cases," Westlake explained in a less aggressive tone. "I find it works better if I adapt and improvise depending on my patient. When Tim's case got referred to me, I spoke with his mother and then with a psychiatrist who consults here occasionally, Dr. Rachel…"

"Rachel Cranston," Gibbs guessed the nodded. "She knows McGee."

"That she does," Westlake replied. "With his family's permission, I consulted with her. We both agree this is the best approach for Tim right now. The patient's frame of mind is critical in the early stages. Tim's got to fight; he has to want to survive. Dr. Donaldson's notes tell me Tim's got that part down. Next hurdle is for him to believe that he can. I'm not downplaying the seriousness of his condition. I'm just letting him know that I'm not worried so he shouldn't be either. Not that I need your approval or your consent, but I'm putting you on notice: I will make you a believer, Agent Gibbs."

"I don't care how you do it," Gibbs said flatly. "Just fix him."

Westlake took in the deep hollows in the man's cheeks and the blackened circles under the agent's eyes. He was running on adrenaline fumes that were going to disappear soon.

"My word means nothing to you right now, but if these tests we're running turn out okay and I can keep him stable for the next 48 hours, I'll have him up and walking down the hall in 10 days," she bobbed her head assuredly.

"Ten days?" Gibbs questioned. "Eighteen hours go, he had a tube down his throat so he could breath; a minute ago you told me you're concerned about brain damage and paralysis. Donaldson made it sound like McGee's at death's door. I don't see a lot of reason to think that's wrong."

Westlake scoffed at the pronouncement as one of her team handed her a tablet whose screen she reviewed swiftly. She chewed her lip then tapped the screen and sent the man off with her orders.

"When's the last time you slept more than 20 minutes?" she asked.

Gibbs did not reply, instead he looked at her with disdain and frustration.

"Agent Gibbs, I don't lose patients without one hell of a fight," she said confidently. She tossed a determined look over her shoulder as she walked toward the room where they were examining McGee. "He's not going to die on my watch."

Gibbs heard the absolute conviction in her voice. Despite the patient's critical condition, her confidence rang clear and held not even a tremor of doubt. Gibbs nodded once in return as he exhaled while feeling a slight sense of ease for the first time in days.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Bishop had arrived that morning to find Tony already at his desk combing through autopsy reports. There were bags under his eyes and a rumpled appearance to his clothing. Normally more interested in a GQ look, Tony appeared as though he had simply grabbed the first items in his closet and threw them on before rushing out the door. A large cup of coffee sat at his elbow. From his lack of drinking from it, Bishop presumed it was either empty already or he had forgotten it was there.

"How long have you been here?" she asked.

"A while," he said without looking up.

"You get any sleep?" she wondered. She suspected she already knew.

"Some," Tony replied curtly. "A well-honed and experienced investigator can function on very little rest. A superior specimen like myself only requires the barest amount of rest and the occasional protein fix to keep going for days without pause."

She nodded, expecting the bravado laced answer. She reached into the bag she toted and waved it in the air over his head.

"So I guess bacon and eggs wrapped in a waffle wouldn't interest you?" she asked, letting the aroma of the heart attack meal fill the area.

Tony dropped the papers in his hand and inhaled deeply. His stomach growled in protest to its neglect that morning. He lifted his eyes and fought the urge to lick his lips.

"It's acts like this that help me understand why Jake married you," Tony said taking the breakfast sandwich gratefully as he spied the insignia of the beloved roach coach outside the main gate on the wrapper. "Does it have…?"

"A sprinkle of sharp cheddar in the eggs and a slather of real maple syrup on the waffle?" she guessed. "Yes. I recalled that's how you liked it."

He grunted his thanks as he shoved a sizable portion of the wrap into his mouth. His dinner the night before, a glass of Scotch when he got home, had not been satisfying to his stomach. Not that food was on his mind. After talking to Ziva, he felt slightly better but did not find that it made sleep easier. He arrived an hour early for work that day in the hope of getting a jump on the elusive answers he sought, but until Burley arrived with the last clues from the crime scene, Tony found all he could do was go back over the things he already knew.

"This case could take a while to figure out," Bishop reminded him. "You should pace yourself. You might think you're Superman, but you're not. Food and sleep, Tony. Everyone needs them."

"I am made of tougher stuff than your average human," he assured her, forcing a cocky grin onto his face. "Maybe you've never heard about this, but I survived a virulent disease that killed half of Europe a few eons ago and came back to work a week earlier than the doctor's orders. You must have figured out by now that as a senior field agent, I am made of tougher stuff than a normal man. I mean, McGee just gets poison ivy and he…"

He stopped himself as the words grew bitter in his mouth. He had forgotten. For a moment, while his exhaustion and frustration and low blood sugar collided, he reverted to his standard operating procedure when he felt vulnerable in relation to his job: He started picking on his trusty and faithful target.

Tony sighed then fell silent. His eyes drifted down to the reports in front of him, autopsy details for the deceased and a rough description of McGee's injuries. The whole thing didn't seem real still, and he knew why. It was because it all happened so far away from him.

It hadn't been that way with Kate or with Paula. He was there when both were killed, murdered, actually. When McGee was attacked, Tony was 7,000 miles away. That bothered him on a level he never expected. He knew it was not his fault, and there was nothing he could have done to prevent it, but he still felt guilty. His partner had been attacked, and Tony had been too far away to protect or help him.

"What is it?" Bishop asked, seeing the tight clench in his jaw suddenly. "You look mad."

"Yeah, I am," Tony said tensely as he felt his temper rise. "He was on a military base surrounded by heavily armed Marines. How the hell does something like this happen?"

"The same way it always does," she replied. "The other guys found a weakness and exploited it."

"So McGee's the weakness, is that what you're saying?" he asked and heard the aggression in his voice. He held up his hand to block any response she might offer. "Sorry. Never mind. Just… didn't get much sleep."

"I can see that," Bishop remarked. "Going over the case or just staring at the ceiling?"

He huffed and nodded at the options.

"Both," he responded as the elevator doors opened.

Tony looked up, impulse and habit expected to see Gibbs. What he saw instead was the haggard and lined face of Burley, who toted several bags of evidence.

"Just get in?" Tony asked.

"No," Burley shook his head. "Last night. Vance said to get some sleep. I sent these back in the DOD secure pouch from Spain. I just picked them up at the secure mailroom on my way up. You want to see them, or does it all go to Abby?"

"Here first," Tony said, reminded of his oversight the day before that spilled the bad news to Abby in advance of Tony doing so.

Burley placed the pouches on the desk. They were a mishmash of evidence: several SD cards containing original images of the photos previously emailed back to DC; McGee's weapon; several flash drives confiscated from Simocorp after the shooting; ID of the Simocorp manager found stabbed several hours after the shooting; and McGee's effects.

"The photo memory and thumb drives can go to Abby," Tony said. "McGee's weapon, too. Actually, send all of this except… these." He paused looking at the small bags contain a few electronic devices and the bundle of cloth in the largest bag. The smears were going rusty with oxidation after so many hours since they were first stained red. "I'll take those down later."

Bishop look at him questioningly.

"She needs to process all of it," she said. "If you don't think she can, get another tech to do it. Look, I know it's hard for her, but…"

"She's going to want to do it," Tony said with an edge in his voice. "I will bring it down to her later. The rest of this is plenty to keep her working all day. I'm not worried the case will to fall to pieces today if Abby doesn't get McGee's bloody shirt and the body armor that didn't save him from getting shot, are you?"

Bishop held her ground and offered him an impassive face.

"Evidence is evidence," she replied. "As long as it gets processed, that's fine. Why does it matter if you bring it down later?"

She asked in a way that was not accusatory or even suspicious, which was good because she did not feel either emotion in this instance. Her question was more on why Tony felt he should be the one to bring Abby the evidence that would most graphically tell the tale of what happened. He had delivered the terrible news to her the day before; it appeared he was setting himself up to be the bearer of bad tidings yet again.

"Tony, I'm just saying, I can bring it down to her in a little while," Bishop offered.

"I will do it," Tony said acknowledging the offer with thanks. "She needs to talk to me again eventually, right?"

Burley shook his head as he rubbed his neck while assessing that plan.

"I can bring it down," Burley offered. "I need to talk trajectories with her anyway. That won't be easy for her, but maybe it's better if she deals with all of this at once. I know how Abby can be about her friends, and I know she and Tim were sort of… I mean, I heard and I got the feeling on my own that they were a bit…"

Tony nodded and cleared his throat.

"Yeah, ' _a bit'_ is vague but accurate and pretty much covers it," Tony said as he grabbed his keys from his desktop. "I appreciate the offers, guys, but I'll do it. For now, Stan, you and Bishop go over the statements you took. Start with the perimeter guards. Get the timeline nailed down. After that, run through the background checks Simocorp did on the shooters when they hired them and get me everything you can from whoever from Simocorp trained them."

He walked around his desk and started toward the elevator. He saw Burley look expectantly around the room. His eyes fell on Gibbs' desk. He seemed to balk at sitting in the boss' perch. Tony understood the hesitation.

"Use McGee's desk," he commanded as he stepped into the waiting car to descend. "Ignore all the glitter on the floor. That's a gift from Abby that I need the cleaning crew to remove. Oh, and Keating, over in the cyber unit, is supposed to be calling with an update on breaking into the laptop."

"Where are you going?" Burley asked as the doors closed.

He looked to Bishop for an answer.

"He's playing chauffeur and bounty hunter," she said then explained at the look on Burley's face was one of confusion. "McGee's mother is landing soon and needs a ride to the hospital. Once Tony gets her there, he's under orders from Vance to bring Gibbs home."

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Vance's Office_**

Ducky stood on the opposite side of the director's desk after being summoned to the office that morning. He was reporting what he had learned so far that morning.

"My concern for Timothy remains high, but I confess to feeling much better to know he is at Johns Hopkins," Ducky admitted. "I find it amazing that Mrs. McGee had the wherewithal to arrange the consultation and alter the medical arrangements given her state of mind."

Vance nodded. He couldn't have found his car keys when his wife was shot in their home. He could not imagine he would have been up for in depth research into intricate medical options and expert surgical credentials if one of his children was knocking on death's door.

"She was married to Admiral McGee," Vance said. "I can imagine that adapting to and dealing with difficult situations was part of the package."

"I suppose," Ducky said dryly. He never met the admiral; although, what he knew of the man made him feel that this was not much of a loss despite the insight it might have given him into the man's son. "Is Mrs. McGee's flight finally underway way?"

"She's nearly here," the director nodded. "There was no direct flight to Baltimore so she had to fly into Reagan National. Agent DiNozzo offered to do the dual favor of driving her to Baltimore and bringing Gibbs back."

"Yes, Jethro mentioned that when we spoke just before I entered," Ducky informed him. "I fear he will need a doctor of his own if he attempts to remain conscious and functioning as a guard much longer. Extreme sleep deprivation does not bring out the best in him. I do hope Tony is successful in being the one who drives back. I would not like to referee that bout today."

Vance considered it as he looked up to the photo of Muhammed Ali standing and snarling over a downed Sonny Liston. Considering what the drain on Gibbs in the last few days, the battle was surely in Tony's favor, but it wouldn't be as triumphant as Ali was in that shot. Gibbs wouldn't go down in the first few seconds of the first round. Also, Tony had obviously had a sleepless night from the looks of things when Vance peeked over the railings into the squad room an hour earlier.

"What I need to know is why this mess happened in the first place," Vance said. "You've finished your autopsies?"

"I have," Ducky said. "What I found is consistent with the initial reports. The unidentified shooters were killed by multiple gunshot wounds to their torsos. The marines and the civilian contractors each had fatal wounds to either the head or the chest from multiple gunshots. Abigail's reports contain the ballistics that identify the types of rounds."

"Thank you, Doctor," Vance said. "After Agent Burley reports in, see what you can get from him on the shooters for a psychological profile. I want to know if these guys were just fanatics or if this was something more."

Ducky nodded.

"Yes, well, I will do what I can, Director," he replied.

"Is Miss Scuito working today?" Vance inquired.

"There are rather mournful dirges emanating from her lab this morning, but Mr. Palmer said she is back at her post," Ducky said. "He saw her when he went to the forensics lab to retrieve a watch belonging to Sgt. Marrovich. The sergeant's widow asked to have them returned in advance of the body as it belonged to the late sergeant's father, who was killed in the attack on the Marine barracks in Beirut in 1983."

Vance snorted at the sad family history. When Marrovich died, his own son was barely three years old—roughly the age Marrovich was when his own father died. The director wondered briefly if the sergeant's son would use this tragedy as inspiration to join the Corps as his own father did or use it as a warning to stay as far from the military as possible. He shook his head, throwing out the thoughts and refocusing on his agency's concerns that day.

"Is Miss Scuito capable of working?" Vance asked abruptly then checked his tone. Even he heard the unintended harshness. "I mean, is it necessary for her to be in the lab? I know work needs to continue and she's a valuable member of the team, but if she's not up to it, she shouldn't be here. We can't have a mistake made on the evidence because someone's head isn't in the game. If she needs the day, it's hers to take. I may not spend a lot of time in the basement, but I know she's close with Gibbs' team."

Ducky sighed. Close was an accurate but not fully encompassing word. Abby simply loved the team as a collective and each member individually. The form and expression of her feelings took on a different bend with each individual and was easy to identify. For Gibbs it was a paternal affection. For Tony, a sibling adoration. For McGee… Well, Ducky long ago diagnosed that. He did not need his psychological profiling credits to figure it out, but they did help to put the erratic and inconsistent reactions the forensic scientist had toward the agent who was more at home in the company of a computer. The medical examiner wondered for several years if Abby would ever understand those contradictions herself. After sitting with her and consoling her for the better part of an hour the day before, he did not need to ask that question for it seemed she had come to a realization before news of McGee's injury ever reach NCIS.

 _More's the pity for her_ , Ducky thought. Sometimes, the heart and the head wrestled until it was too late. He knew that from personal experience.

"Abby needs to work," Ducky said. "Her analysis grounds her and helps her make sense of a chaotic world. Finding answers brings her peace, particularly in times of great crisis."

"You think she's in a competent frame of mind to be working on evidence?" Vance asked.

"She wants to know the truth behind what happened to Timothy and why as much as anyone," Ducky advised him. "In order to cope with this tragedy, she needs to help. The only way she can do that right now is to dissect the evidence for answers. I have no doubt when Timothy is well enough for visitors, she will leave her lab to lend a hand in his recovery however she can."

 **oOoOoOo**

Gibbs' waited in the hallway, leaning on the wall for support. He kept his arms folded tightly as he counted the minutes. It had been two hours and three minutes since McGee was taken away. When the door to the exam room finally opened, Gibbs watched with anxious and eager eyes. Two attendants wheeled the very still patient out then situated him in a room down the hall among the many monitors, tubes and wires. Gibbs followed and noted McGee's eyes remained closed and his color ashen.

Westlake walked by, nodding at Gibbs but not pausing to speak. After checking that everything was as it should be, the attendants left, following the disappearing doctor. A nurse then appeared dragging a chair on wheels. She presented it to Gibbs.

"Dr. Westlake said if you want to stay, you need to sit down before you fall down," the nurse said in a hushed but pleasant voice.

Gibbs grunted and placed his hands on the back of the chair, using it for support but not sitting in it. The nurse raised her eyebrows at the resistance but received a stony expression in reply. She recognized a lost cause.

"Suit yourself," she said softly. "FYI: the floor is hard. When you collapse and hit it, it's going to hurt." Gibbs kept his eyes on the patient rather than comment. "Alright, well, since you're staying these are the rules. To get in here, you need to be on the list. I checked, and you're set there. We don't have set visiting hours so stay as long as you like. You can visit at any time as long as the patient remains stable, but we only allow one visitor at a time until the patient is upgraded from critical."

"Who's in charge of the list?" Gibbs asked swallowing a yawn.

"Whoever is making primary decisions for the patient and Dr. Westlake," she replied. "She has revocation ability."

"She revoke a lot of people?" Gibbs wondered.

"When necessary," the nurse smiled. "The doctor knows best."

Gibbs scoffed a sound that was either begrudging agreement or mild objection.

"Your friend is in good hands," the nurse encouraged. "You should talk to him. We increased his pain medication so he is in a significantly sedated state, but he can probably hear you. He may not understand what you are saying, but there is a chance he will recognize your voice. Hearing the voices of close family and friends helps reduce a patient's stress level."

She adjusted the blinds on the windows slightly, cutting down on the brightness of the room. Before departing, she looked once more pointedly at Gibbs then at the chair she had placed beside the bed for him to use.

His head felt heavy and his lids made of lead. The only thing keeping him awake, oddly, was the rhythmic chirp of the heart monitor to the right of the bed. He was thankful the mid-day light was partially shaded. His eyes burned from being open so long.

He leaned closer to the bed and put his hand carefully on McGee's shoulder.

"There's a couple things you should know, McGee," Gibbs said in a hushed but even tone. "It's Tuesday afternoon. Your mom will be here soon. I'm not leaving until she arrives, and you are one strong and stubborn bastard."

Gibbs nodded once, feeling he conveyed all he needed. He then pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	6. Chapter 6

**oOoOoOo**

 ** _Johns Hopkins Hospital_**

The trip from Reagan National Airport to Baltimore took just over an hour, which was surprising to Tony considering the traffic. Then again, he hadn't paid much attention to speed limits, and the government plates on the car were often a good deterrent for local LEOs to hold off on issuing tickets… unless they had an axe to grind. Luckily on this day, everyone's mood and attitude was in the right place.

The ride was also quiet. Tony had picked up Carol McGee at the bottom of the escalator from the arrival gates. When he first got to the airport, he was not sure how he would identify her, having forgotten to do research and find a driver's license photo of the woman. In the end, it turned out that was not necessary for she found him. She spotted him and said his photo had been texted to her by the director's assistant. After recognizing him, she introduced herself, stunning Tony with both her appearance and her controlled demeanor. Throughout the ride to the hospital, she remained quiet and never remarked on the many stolen glances she received from her driver.

Once inside the hospital, Tony escorted her to the fifth floor where Gibbs waited.

Tony winced at this leader's appearance and felt a renewed pang of fear for his ailing partner. Anything that could make Gibbs look that frazzled and spent could not be good. Tony tried to keep that worry out of his voice as he made introductions.

"Ma'am, this is Special Agent Gibbs," he said. "Boss, this is McGee's mom… uh, Mrs. McGee."

"Please, call me Carol, Agent Gibbs," she said in a composed but strained voice.

"Then call me Jethro," Gibbs said in reply. "The doctor will be back in just a minute."

Carol nodded as her composure slowly began to fade. She looked up and down the hall with hints of agitations. She started to wring her hands and the tears she had held at bay during the ride from the airport began to rise under her lids.

"How is Timothy?" Carol asked in a voice that was not a smooth as it had been a moment earlier. "Where is he?"

Gibbs seemed to expect this shift in her demeanor. He nodded then led her toward a room just a few feet away. Before letting her enter, he gave her his frank assessment.

"He looks bad because this is bad," he said bluntly. "Just keep in mind that he's made it through two emergency surgeries and nearly 10,000 miles of travel in the last few days."

"Is he going to die?" she asked quietly.

The dire question was asked in a flat and defeated tone, like she expected the worst and was bracing herself to have that fear confirmed. Gibbs, however, was not ready to throw in the towel.

"I don't have that answer, but your son's a survivor, Carol," Gibbs said. "He's been through a lot in the last few days, and he's still here fighting to stay. Focus on that."

"Thank you," she said as her voice grew thin and her eyes fell on the sight in front of her. She patted Gibbs' arm as she stepping into the room to be with her son.

Tony waited in the hall, watching her disappear into the room and fighting the urge to crane his neck to watch her further. He was observing her leave so intently that he did not notice Gibbs returning to his side and offering him a flat gaze.

"See something that interests you, DiNozzo?" he asked in a quiet yet menacing voice.

"Well, yeah, Boss," Tony remarked slyly. "I'm… overwhelmed and shocked and… oddly intrigued. I mean she's almost old enough to be my mother, still… Is it just me, or does she look like she shouldn't be McGee's mother? I mean, I always pictured his mom to be someone with a doting, Donna Reed quality but with frumpy Marion Cunningham looks."

"Your point?" Gibbs asked.

"My point?" Tony chuckled in a soft but giddy fashion as he grinned appreciatively and shivered with unrestrained delight. "Boss, she looks like Sybil Sheppard. I mean, wow. Did you take a good look at her? That is a heatwave in cougar town."

Gibbs sighed and shook his head. Acting of its own accord, his right hand shot up and delivered a swift, glancing blow to the back of his agent's head. Tony blinked then cleared his throat.

"Right, we can discuss it at another time," Tony offered in a chastised tone. "You ready to go? The director gave me orders, Boss. I can't leave without you. I am authorized to use force so if I have to taze you, just know it's for your own good and mine because I'm pretty sure Vance will hurt me if you don't leave with me."

Gibbs held up his finger signaling he needed another minute. The reason for his delay was apparent when a stern, fine-boned woman wearing a long, white lab coat approached. She nodded her graying head at him in a frosty but cordial manner then stepped into McGee's room. Tony was torn. He wanted to step inside as well to both see his partner and hear from the medical expert on McGee's prognosis; however, another part of him did not want to see that scene or hear what she had to say. Gibbs was not known for his optimism and his stilted pep talk to Mama McGee did not inspire Tony with confidence.

What did intrigue him was the sudden stiffness of the air when the doctor appeared.

"Let me guess," Tony said nodding toward McGee's room. "That's Wicked Witch Westlake? I heard from Ducky that you two were doing the whole circling around each other like a snake and a mongoose routine. For what it's worth, dragon lady or not, Ducky says she's tops in her field, Boss, and McGee could use someone like that right now. It's probably a good thing he's unconscious. He'd probably be too afraid of his doctor to tell her how he was feeling."

Gibbs said nothing. Westlake might wear thorns around others, but Gibbs never observed her bring them anywhere near his agent. With McGee, she alternated between a sweet cheerleader personality and Mary Poppins. To Gibbs, she seemed a little crazy (and he wasn't ready to rule out that she was), but as long as she kept her vow to pull McGee through this he would keep his opinion to himself. To do that, he would keep his distance from the medicine woman. He knew nothing about the intricacies of thoracic surgery or the complex process of recovering from it, but (despite his initial impression of her) he felt a growing sense of confidence in McGee's condition. Whether it was simply being back stateside or some vibe the precision of the hospital staff gave him, he did not know. What he was certain of was that he felt he could depart and leave McGee to his family and physician for now.

Tony looked toward the open door to McGee's room then at the many hours of concern etched into his boss's face.

"How's he doing really?" Tony asked soberly.

"Hanging on," Gibbs said.

"Are we waiting here because you think that might change?" Tony asked trying to keep the fear out of his voice.

Gibbs said nothing. He merely kept his sleep darkened eyes on the open doorway. Tony nodded, translating the unspoken reply into terms he could understand: They were waiting to see if smokin' hot mama McGee needed anything before they departed.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _ICU Room 4_**

Dr. Westlake finished her summation of McGee's condition and what measures were being taken to mitigate it. Carol listened to the words but found it hard to concentrate as her eyes were darting between the doctor, the blinking lights of the many monitors, and the unmoving form of her first-born child.

He looked more frail and vulnerable in that moment than he did the day he was born, she thought as the tears she held back for so many hours cascaded over her lids. She heard the concerned but encouraging words of the doctor, but what Carol wanted to hear was her son's voice, telling her that that he was fine and this was all a mistake. The more she looked at him, the more her fears grew she would never hear him speak any words to her again.

After Westlake departed, Carol stood beside the bed. She gently stroked her son's cheek and found it reassuringly warm and not chilled to a deathly temperature that would more accurately match his ashen complexion. She leaned over brushed his sandy hair then and kissed his forehead.

"I expect drama from your sister," she said gently as she took the doctor's advice on speaking to him. "If the two of you are going to start competing, I will ground both of you for the next 20 years, Timothy."

She was not sure if it was her imagination, but she thought she noticed the slightest twitch in his jaw.

"I know you are tired and you hurt, but I would really like you to open your eyes, sweetheart," Carol said clasping his hand, careful not to jostle the needles jutting from the medicine ports sunken into the veins atop the back of it. "I haven't seen you in months, and do not tell me that seeing you on the computer using Skype counts because for a mother it doesn't."

The machines chirped and toned along showing no signs of change. Carol knew this was good as Westlake explained stability was the key for the next few crucial hours. Carol hesitated before offering up her next bit of conversation but decided there was probably more fear on her part than danger in her words. Bringing up her son's father was often a dicey proposition, but she felt in this instance invoking the man's memory could be helpful.

"It's times like this that I miss your father," she said as her throat tightened. "He was never any good at dealing with a family crisis; I always felt so composed and in control by comparison. However, since he isn't here I'm not feeling very composed or brave right now so that means I need your help, Timothy. I need you to start getting better. Okay, baby? I need you to do that for me."

As she spoke, the constriction in her throat barely let the words come out. The final sound was more of a choke crossed with a restrained sob than an actual word. Carol bowed her head then forced herself to take a deep breath and steady herself. As she did so, she felt an agonizingly slow movement in her hand. McGee had closed his hand on hers a bit as small slivers of his irises became visible when his lids lifted slightly.

"That's right, open your eyes, honey," Carol commanded in a firm but loving tone while she cupped his cheek in her hand. "It's so good to see you awake, sweetheart. You're going to be okay. I'm here now. Sarah and your grandmother will be here soon. We are going to make sure you get better."

His lids drooped again almost instantly but a surge of relief coursed through Carol like a jolt of electricity. Westlake had said he had moments of consciousness despite the heavy medications. She had also discussed concerns about damage done to the brain due to heavy blood losses, but Carol's fears were slightly abated. She felt certain he knew she was there and had responded to her plea to him. Her son never let her down, and she would use that to their advantage.

"You can rest for now," she sighed. "Just know that I am going to expect our talks to get longer as the days progress. You also have friends here who want to see you, but they can't do that until you're awake. Agent DiNozzo is outside right now, and Agent Gibbs has been here with you this whole time."

The slightest rush of breath accompanied by the hint of sound left McGee's lips. Carol leaned closer.

"Honey, I couldn't here you," she said. "Tell me again."

It took several long and drawn out breaths before he tried once more. When he did, Carol strained her ears to listen. What she heard brought tears to her eyes and a smile to her trembling lips. Whatever concerns the doctors had regarding possible peripheral damage or lack of understanding of his situation, she shelved that worry. Several minutes later, when she was certain he had slipped back into his medicated sleep, Carol peered into the hallway, hoping to find the NCIS contingent still present. She was not disappointed.

"Jethro, I'm glad you're still here," she said walking toward him as she brushed tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. "I have a message for you from Timothy."

Both he and Tony looked with surprise at Carol as she put her arms Gibbs then embraced him tightly. A mixture of relief and worry shuddered through her body. Tony cocked an eyebrow at the message delivery.

"Uh, he said to hug Gibbs?" Tony wondered. "That's a little more forward than we usually get in the office… unless we're dealing with Abby. Must be the meds making him think you two did some serious bonding in Deutschland, Boss."

"No, the hug is from me," Carol explained as she let go of Gibbs, half expecting to see the man's hand slap the back of his agent's head the way she heard her son describe many times in the past. "Timothy wanted me to offer you his gratitude for all you have done for him during the last few days."

"He did?" Tony asked, wondering if the woman had dipped into her son's pain meds.

As far as Tony knew, the entire time Gibbs had sat with McGee since arriving at Johns Hopkins, the patient hadn't even moved. According to Gibbs, McGee had not spoken an actual word since getting shot the previous weekend. Tony could tell from Gibbs' disbelieving expression that he doubted McGee knew anyone was there at all.

"I'm not insane," Carol assured them. "I told him that you had been with him the whole time. He said three words after that: _tell boss thanks_. He's asleep again. I'm sure when you visit next, he'll want to tell you himself, but I wanted to let you know how much it means to me and to him that you've been by his side all this time."

Gibbs nodded. He did not feel the need to explain that he would do this for any of his team. Teams, good teams, were family. What Mike Franks' had called the unspoken rule came to mind in that instant.

"You do what you have to do for family," Gibbs said.

"Well, my son is very lucky you adopted him into your family," she said as she embraced him again.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Bishop sat at her desk sifting through a dozen hits her computer generated regarding the all the individuals (deceased, wounded and merely witnesses) involved in the assault on Foxtrot Camp. She was not surprised to find several of the marines had previous encounters with NCIS. Several had small, misdemeanor altercations on bases in the past, one was investigated for domestic assault, two more were witnesses in a brawl at a club where a Navy Petty Officer was killed several years earlier. She had read through most of the reports and found nothing, mindful of her computer search still chewing on the agency's extensive records for any mention of the individuals. She was prepared to move on to searching available online records of another department (starting with the NSA) when her computer chirp, spitting up one last record out of the bottom of the NCIS vault.

She blinked in surprise and shook her head to clear her vision to make sure she was seeing it properly. There was no doubt on second glance.

"Stan," she called across the room, "you know anything about the NCIS cases that don't have active links?"

"What do you mean?" he asked. "You mean closed cases?"

"I don't know," she shook her head. "You've been with the agency a lot longer than I have. Is there anything special I should know about a case number that doesn't have a hyperlink into the case file? I have the number here on my screen, but it's just a number. There's no link I can access to view the documents. The case number got churned up in my search based on a social security number query. I wasn't even going to run it, but Tony said check everything so that Gibbs knows we turned over every rock."

Burley shook his head. The computer was not his thing. Crime scenes and witnesses, that's what he dealt with best. He could write a report of investigation, but how the ROI's got magically saved into the memory of the agency he did not know. He knew how to call up old investigations, but all those he had ever located simply had a link that when clicked on with the mouse opened documentation of the investigation.

"What's the case number?" he asked.

Bishop recited the digits to him then assured him she had it right.

"I'm thinking the problem is the number was input wrong," she offered. "It's a few digits short of a case number."

"Not if it's older," he informed her. "That might be why it doesn't have a link. The old NIS case files didn't have as many digits. Not all of those are digitized yet either. There was a memo a while back about the budget cutting that project back. The Secretary's office felt that the older the case the less likely it was relevant to current operations. From this sequence of numbers, this case is from 1986. No one involved in this attack was even in the military back then."

Bishop nodded, agreeing with that statement, but that did not change what was on her screen.

"Yeah, they were all little kids in 1986, I know that," she said. "Tell the computer that though. I got a cold hit on an SSN appearing in an old ROI. Unfortunately, the report is not available online. Think it's at the annex in the records basement?"

Burley shrugged. It was, he was certain, a dead end, but he understood her drive. Tony had left them with orders to sift through everything and find out all they could about those involved in the attack. Bishop lifted her phone and called the records clerk. With a groan and a sigh, he agreed to go look for the paperwork and promised to call her back soon.

It was another 40 minutes before that call came. When it did, Bishop hung up with a deep furrow in her forehead.

"They sending it over?" Burley asked.

"They can't find it," she said. "The desk clerk is going to check with the guys who were previously in charge of scanning all the old records to see if they have it with them, but it's not signed out to anyone. He did confirm it would be a 1986 investigation and said that the numbers also indicate the investigation was opened the west coast, either at Coronado or at the Naval Air Station in Alameda."

"Call the records desk at Coronado," Burley suggested. "If it's theirs, they'll still have the file. If the investigation was done at NAS, it has to be here in the annex. Alameda shutdown in the mass base closures in 1997 so their records were sent here. Why do you think it's important?"

"I don't know," Bishop shrugged with a shrewd look in her eyes. "It might be nothing, but it's information I didn't expect to find. I don't do the whole gut thing the way Gibbs does, but logic tells me that I should take a peek just so I can discount it for good reasons."

Burley looked at her with a doubting expression. She crumbled under his disbelief.

"Okay, I ran out of stuff to do, I'm curious about this hit, and I need something to keep me occupied or I'm going to bring the rest of that evidence down to Abby against Tony's wishes," she admitted.

"Orders," Burley corrected her. "Tony left us with orders."

"I didn't quite hear it that way," she remarked as she looked at the untouched evidence pouches. She sighed then turned her eyes back to the number of the missing case on her screen. There was, she realized, one other location she could check for information that might help remove any probative value possibilities from the missing file so she began typing again.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Abby's Lab_**

The day had been arduous, but it was not yet over. Abby had spent the morning recreating the scene of the shooting, determining trajectories based on the last position of the victims, their heights, the entry wounds and the type of bullet and weapon used for each documented wound. Normally, she would have used the more detailed computer generated images of the victims using reasonably similar avatars of each person involved.

But she couldn't this time.

She tried, but every time she started creating the setting and people in the Comm Center, she felt nauseous. As with every case, the victims were people and one of those people was one of her guys. So, in order to get through the task, she kept the figures faceless and without any identifying characteristics other than red figures for the bad guys and blue ones for the good guys. By the end the time she completed the composite scenario, there were a lot of blue guys on the ground.

"You keep getting better at this," Burley said as he stood in the doorway watching her run through the simulation on the plasma screen. "You are a master, Abby."

"Stan," she greeted him with a wan smile followed by a hug considerably less exuberant than he was accustomed to, but one he graciously accepted all the same. "I heard you were back. I'm so glad you're okay."

"Me, too," he replied. "I guess there's no point in asking how you are."

Her hair was in pigtails, but they were pulled low on her head. She was wearing a typical array of black garments, but there were no adornments or cuffs or collars to set off the ensemble. She wore no makeup and looked withered.

Abby shrugged listlessly.

"Did you see him, McGee, after it happened?" she asked.

"A quick glimpse as they carted him away on a liter to the chopper," Burley said. "I'm sure everyone will be able to see him soon."

"I hope so," she replied. "Anything new upstairs?"

She had avoided the squad room for the day for two reasons. First, she had a lot of work to do. There was evidence that still needed processing from the day before and more was arriving. Next, she wasn't sure how to react to Tony. She understood that he had a job to do and that not telling her the terrible news was part of that job, but that did not mean she liked it. She also did not think she could look at him and not fall apart. She feared that if the situation turned still deadlier she might never be able to look at Tony again without remembering the shocking moment in her lab when he confirmed the news that her machines told her: McGee's life was in danger.

"We're working on a lot of theories, but nothing is solid yet," he said. He could see from her expression that was not the information she was seeking. "Tony called Bishop from the hospital parking lot. He was about to bring Gibbs back here now that Tim's mom arrived. He had some good news. Apparently Tim woke up for a minute. His mother talked to him and thinks he's at least partly aware of what's been going on. The doctor also is feeling a bit more optimistic about his chances for a full recovery."

Abby sighed heavily with relief. She knew from Ducky that Gibbs and McGee were stateside and both at the hospital in Baltimore. Knowing McGee was being treated at Johns Hopkins had also steadied her nerves. Abby had researched Dr. Westlake and found her worthy of taking care of McGee. While Baltimore was further away than she liked, it was least in the vicinity of Washington so that she could go see him, which she planned to do as soon as her day was complete.

"So what can you tell me about what happened?" Stan asked, seeing Abby's gaze grow distance.

He understood what Tony meant when he said keeping Abby focused on the work was a task in itself when she was worried about someone she cared for; a simple mention of McGee and she went from intently staring at a computer generated schematic to staring vacantly into space with tears in her eyes.

"I can confirm most of what you already suspected about the sequence of events," Abby replied as she shook herself out of her daze. "A whole lot of bad guy bullets and very few good guy ones. The only real changes are who fired which shots in what order." She swallowed hard as she set the animation in motion and played it for Burley. "We thought John Doe Number Two hit McGee, but the ballistics say it was actually John Doe Number One. Here at the end, it appears that McGee did fire at John Doe Number Two. His first shot was off the mark, probably from being startled. It hit the guy in the shoulder. His next two hit center mass while John Doe Number Two was shooting at Sgt. Marrovich. Lt. Davies was already down. He was hit as the shooters came through the door. They took him out first for some reason."

"He's at my station," Burley noted as he stroked his chin then pointed at the screen. "Davies was sitting at the station where I normally did my communicating, but we had trouble with the camera starting the day before so Tim rigged one on the other station instead. They came through the door looking to take out whoever was sitting there."

Abby nodded, agreeing that this explanation made sense. It also answered one persistent question in the inquiry so far: Was McGee the specific target? If they gunmen were looking to kill whoever was sitting there, then this wasn't a case of McGee having someone who wanted him dead specifically. They just wanted to kill whatever NCIS agent was there. This did not offer her a lot of comfort and still left many questions open, but being able to eliminate any of the theories about the assault was helpful on some level.

"Did Tim send you an email or talk to you about that laptop at all while he was at the base?" Burley said abruptly.

"No," Abby shook her head. "He and I weren't in contact at all. Why?"

"This just reminded me of something," he said with a perplexed expression. "When he was having trouble getting the satellite uplink to work, he mentioned something about the laptop having a secret space or something. I didn't really follow him, but he had an idea about it. I think it was somehow related to the trouble I was having at my normal station in the Comm Center. He said something was frustrating him then he talked to the base commander about needing access to a more secure server."

"More secure?" Abby repeated. "That could mean almost anything. Did he say what kind of secure server? Like, did he mean back here?"

"No," Burley said. "He mentioned the server on the carrier, the Truman. I remember he said he could access something through the carrier, but he needed to be onboard for that. He put in a call to someone and that's about the time he got the invite to have dinner with Admiral Porter and Captain Jackson. I think he was going to see if he could break away from them for a bit to get access to their systems. I'm sorry, Abby. That's about all I got out of everything he said. I'm not a tech guy. If you starting talking about anything beyond my fingerprint scanner or iPhone and I get lost."

Abby nodded. She heard similar comments from a lot of agents. Dealing with people was their specialty. Those that dealt with machines usually didn't do field work. McGee was the odd ball that way, she thought sadly. He had improved vastly in his investigative and interrogation skills, but his strengths would always be with databases, servers and machine code.

"You're still better than Gibbs," Abby remarked with an accepting and fond scolding in her subdued voice as the elevator chimed in the background. "IT only got him transitioned to a smart phone last year; in his world, texting is the cutting edge and he's not really big on that even."

"Because it doesn't seem like progress if some people can only communicate with their thumbs," Gibbs announced while striding into the room.

Although his clothing was fresh as was his shave, his face screamed exhaustion. He looked worse than when he was poisoned with BZ gas by a terrorist and worse than when he left the hospital after being in an explosion that wiped his memory temporarily. At least he was standing up straight, Abby thought. Still, his eyes were sunken despite being wide open. His voice was testy yet strong.

"Gibbs, you're here!" Abby yelped then threw her arms around him and held onto him tightly then pushed him away and pointed at him questioningly. "Wait. Why are you here?"

"I work here, and this is where the evidence is," he said turning his attention to the animation on the screen as he nodded at the other agent in the room. "Is this what you've got so far?"

He caught Burley's eye and nodded in silent greeting to him.

"Boss," Burley held out his hand and grimaced as he spied the rundown look of his former mentor. "You look like hell."

"You looked in the mirror today, Stan?" Gibbs wondered with a raised eyebrow assessment then pointed to the screen. "Is this the sequence? Let me see it."

"Okay," Abby said playing it from the beginning again, wincing when the McGee avatar dropped to the floor. "Using the time span indicated by the video feed recorded in MTAC from the moment when it picked up the shots fired outside as a starting point, it's only 43 seconds from when the shooters leave the barracks until the Marines stepped into the Comm Center and it's over."

Gibbs watched the recreation as a dozen disjointed thoughts bombarded him. There was something, a buried nugget of information, just below the surface of his mind. It was one of those details that the more you grabbed for it, the further it would sink. He felt terrible for what he was going to do next, but it was necessary.

"Can you play them side-by-side?" he asked. "Put the MTAC recording up and show it alongside in real time with your computer thingy."

Burley offered cocked eyebrow expression. Gibbs caught it.

"We're missing something," Gibbs said. "If these guys wanted to just cause some damage, they could have hit the mess. More targets. Less effort. Less stealth needed. Instead, they went to the Comm Center. Why?"

"It might be related to a computer," Burley suggested.

"Does it look to you like they shot up the computers?" Gibbs snarled. "Abby, can you put them up or not?"

She put her fingers on the keyboard then hesitated. She had not watched the video. Not yet. She had only queued up the frame when the first shot was picked up by the audio then skipped to the end when the shots stopped so that she could get the timespan only. She knew she would actually watch it, when she got to that part of her analysis. She was going to need to do a full audio analysis of what the recording picked up, background noises or anything else that might be valuable. Her delay was not strict avoidance. It was simply her process, and she wasn't working as fast as she might. That was mostly fatigue and a desire to avoid caffeine. The avoidance there was just to make sure she didn't over caffeinate and make mistakes. All investigations were important, but this one was close to home.

"I can," she said watching her fingers tremble as she aligned the two videos starting from the moment of the first shot. "Here we go."

It was, she felt, the longest 43 seconds of her life. She thought about closing her eyes not to watch but found she could not. Hearing McGee's voice was hard. He only spoke five words before the sickening sound of gunfire took over. She shuddered as the final shots rang out, matching in perfect time with her computer recreation.

"Well?" Burley asked looking at Gibbs who stared intently at the two screens.

"Nothing," Gibbs sighed as he shook his head. "There's something we're missing. Play it again."

"No," Burley said. "Boss, there's no reason. There's nothing more there. What we need to know…"

"We need to know why they started shooting," Gibbs snarled. "Do you know that yet? I don't. What I have is partial footage of them doing the shooting. We start there, and we work backwards."

Burley took the verbal beating stoically. He was familiar with exhausted Gibbs and frustrated Gibbs and angry Gibbs. This was as slightly different spin on those. This was hurt Gibbs. Burley, like anyone who lasted on Gibbs team, had a deep affection for the taciturn investigator. He had seen him physically in pain a few times, nothing serious (particularly for a former Marine) but to see him in emotional pain shook Burley. He knew Gibbs cared for this teams—the man had flown out to a carrier years earlier just to help him with a case that had him mentally strapped, but this was different.

This team he had was different. They had been together longer than any of Gibbs' previous teams, and there was a familial bond between them with Gibbs in the reluctant parental role. One of his kids was hurt. He had been hurt right in front of Gibbs, and there wasn't a thing the man could do to stop it or to help until it was over.

"Boss, I know this is hard," Burley said under the weight of the man's fierce glare. "We're going to get to the bottom of it, but there's no point in going over the footage of the attack again and again. You know what happened. You saw it and heard it unfold right in front of you."

Gibbs broke off his glare and wheeled around intent on walking out of the room. As he turned, he saw Abby standing off to the side with tears trickling down her cheeks. She kept silent, her eyes frozen on the paused image of McGee lying on the floor with his life seeping out of him. Gibbs sighed and walked to her.

"He'll pull through," Gibbs promised as he hugged her. "I've met his doctor. McGee will be too intimidated by her to even consider not surviving this."

"I heard she's kind of her own force of nature," Abby sniffled as she wilted into the comfort of his embrace.

"She reminds me a bit of my first drill instructor," Gibbs said.

"Is she letting him have visitors?" Abby wondered as she stepped back and fixed him with a watery but hopeful look.

"Carol, McGee's mother, will let us know when he's ready," Gibbs said. "Until then, are you going to be okay doing all of this?"

Abby nodded as she grabbed the remote from her table top and shut down the video.

"I'll be fine as long as I don't have to look at that again today," she said as she wiped her eyes and took a deep breath as the elevator sounded out in the passage way. Following that, heavy footsteps could be heard shuffling toward the lab.

"Okay," Gibbs nodded then looked at the rest of the evidence laid out on the table. "Find me answers, Abs."

She nodded again, renewed in her conviction to dig out the necessary nuggets of information. As she let her eyes roam the table, Tony stepped into the room and sighed explosively.

"I heard from the guards in the lobby you came back here," Tony said with an edge in his voice. "I distinctly recall dropping you off at your house where you agreed you were going to sleep."

"Yeah," Gibbs nodded. "I did. Got in a whole hour."

Tony hung his head and groaned before looking up with a perturbed expression that he tried valiantly to wrestle under control.

"Vance is going to nail at least one of us to the wall for you being here," Tony predicted. "Remember at the hospital when I mentioned using a tazer?"

"Don't even think about it," Gibbs warned.

"No," Tony shook his head. "I'm saying use it on me. That'll be my excuse to the director for how you got back here."

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Johns Hopkins Hospital_**

Evening settled over Baltimore as Dr. Penelope "Penny" Langston began her vigil at her grandson's bedside.

She had received the call regarding his injury early the previous evening. At the time, she was in Switzerland at a research symposium. She was slated to be that evening's keynote speaker. Instead, she ditched the speech and booked a car to Zurich where she got on the first flight out of Europe she could find. She made it to Canada and found that the layover in Montreal before her flight to Washington was too long so she ditched the plane ticket and rented a car. She then drove 9 hours to Baltimore without stopping for anything but gas.

Once there, she sent her daughter-in-law to a hotel. Penny was tired, but Carol had to deal with Sarah, who also arrived that evening. Her granddaughter was in need of comfort from her mother after just spending a few minutes by her brother's bedside. Penny knew Sarah could be moody on her best days and did not handle emotionally charge situations with much grace. Seeing her brother in such a precarious condition crumbled whatever fortifications she had and reduced her to a puddle of sobbing shakes.

Penny adored both of her grandchildren, but she had a special place in her heart for her grandson. He reminded her so much of herself, whereas Sarah was a bundle of emotions and attitude salted with a bit of arrogance, an unintentional gift from her father. Although a sweet girl at heart, Sarah made the most of her position as the baby of the family and perfected the role of brat at an early age. Penny loved her spunk and encouraged it in many ways, but there was just something about her tender-hearted and introverted grandson that plucked at her heartstrings even on a normal day.

And this was anything but normal.

Penny was genuinely scared for him—even more so than when she heard about the explosion at his workplace two years earlier. He weathered that ordeal with just a small scar from a few stitches. This was trauma of a whole other level.

She was more worried about him than she ever had been for her husband or her son when they were in combat zones. Both of them were gone now, and neither career military man met his end as the result of armed conflicts. She found it uniquely odd that her grandson, the one who broke with McGee family tradition by not joining the military and was an academic at heart, was the one clinging to life after a bloody battle in a war zone. She knew her grandson had been in Afghanistan, but like so many others, she had forgotten the dangers there. Without active, daily combat missions appearing on the news, she had forgotten that it was still a dangerous spot. That truth was now laying undeniably in front of her as she sipped a bitter cup of tea from a recycled paper cup.

She was musing on the dissatisfying nature of her drink when she caught a small uptick in the monitor registering his pulse rate. His eyes, still close, scrunched tightly and his head moved on the pillow. Penny shifted her chair closer to the bed and squeezed his hand.

"Timothy?" she called to him. "Sweetheart, it's okay to wake up. Open your eyes for me, honey."

He did so reluctantly and with great effort it seemed. His gaze was wandering and unfocused at first until he settled on her face looming above him. Penny beamed back at him with all the radiance she could muster on very little sleep and absolutely no good tea.

"Well, hello there handsome," Penny said warmly. "Come here often?"

"Penny?" McGee wheezed in groggily and weak voice.

"Yes, it's me," she assured him. "Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital," he answered but it sounded more like a question than an answer.

"That's right," Penny nodded. "Johns Hopkins Hospital. Your alma mater is just a little ways across town. Do you remember if there's a good pizza place nearby? I was thinking that maybe you and I could run out and grab a slice and be back before the doctor knows your out of bed, kido."

"Why?" he asked in a mournful and scared voice.

Penny knew he was not asking about her dinner plans.

"You were hurt while you were working," she said cautiously. "The doctor is taking great care of you and said you'll be up and around in no time."

She knew that was overselling the truth a bit, but she also knew her grandson. He needed encouragement more than straight answers at this point. His heart rate picked up another notch and his hand clenched weakly in hers.

"Tony and Kate okay?" he asked.

Penny blinked at the choice of names and chalked up the confusion to the trauma as much as the medication.

"Everyone is fine," she lied. "We're all concentrating on you. I'm here, so is Sarah and your mother."

McGee pause and blinked several times, taking in her words and swirling them in his mind until they made sense. He found his voice again as he sighed shallowly making a defeated sound.

"He's not here?" McGee said with defeat weighing heavily on his labored words.

"Who?" Penny asked seeking to alleviate his obvious distress.

"The admiral," he replied as his eyelids drooped. "Too busy, I guess."

"The admiral?" she asked with rising concern. "Timothy? Who do you mean?"

"Dad," he whispered.

As McGee was consumed again by the veil of sleep, Penny's eyes opened wide as she began to tremble with an even deeper worry.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	7. Chapter 7

**oOoOoOo**

 ** _Johns Hopkins Hospital_**

Ducky sat in the quiet alcove down the hall from the nurse's station. Penny, his contemporary and (when she was in DC) occasional dinner companion, sat beside him with her head bowed with fatigue and fear. The medical examiner had listened to her disclosure about the latest development in her grandson's medical ordeal, the one that had unfolded in the previous two hours. Ducky had arrived at the hospital following Penny's call seeking solace and explanations. It was not that she did not trust Dr. Westlake. Indeed, the thoracic specialist had demonstrated great skill in keeping the patient stable, but Penny needed to hear the opinion of someone she had a deeper level of trust with.

"I agree with Dr. Westlake's assessment thus far," Ducky said calmly. "Timothy has experienced an extreme level of trauma both physical and emotional in the last several days. His mind was injured as much as his body by this. When you add the impressive list of medications, including powerful opioids for pain management, to the effects of the blood loss and shock to his various systems, a certain amount of confusion is expected. It is too soon to determine if he has any permanent cognitive impairments."

Penny nodded and knuckled a tear out of her eye only to be offered a crisp handkerchief from the medical examiner. She smiled wanly at him.

"A tough, old, broad like me should be able to handle a little off-kilter conversation with her grandson a bit better than this," she scolded herself.

"I think you are shouldering events remarkably well," Ducky said kindly. "I know Timothy is very dear to you—much as you are to him. I find it encouraging that he recognized you as he did his mother and that he spoke to both of you with more lucidity than one might expect given his current state. I do not mean to give false hope, but to me that is as much of a clue to the state of his mental faculties as the questions he asked which alarmed you."

Penny nodded as she took a steadying breath. The warning bells in her head had started the moment her grandson mentioned the name Kate. She knew who Kate Todd was, having spent a long time on the phone with McGee following the woman's murder. Despite working crimes scenes involving death, losing a team member had brought the dangerous nature of his world home to him in a way he was not prepared to accept at first. Knowing that part of him so well, Penny was now kicking herself for correcting that evening him when he asked after deceased family and colleagues a second time upon waking a while after nodding off.

"I shouldn't have told him," she said, recalling the sounds of the heart monitor screaming for attention when his pulse rate and blood pressure had spiked. "I should have lied to him and said his father was on his way and that both Kate and Tony had just been at the hospital checking on him but had to go back to the office to finish paperwork. It's just that I've tried to never lie to Timothy. I was worried that he would know I was lying and he was already too agitated. So, I told him the truth would. I thought it would make him remember and help him. Obviously, that was the wrong thing to do."

As soon as she had delivered the news to McGee, the monitors lit up and screamed in protest. Medical personnel flooded into the room and delivered a host of new medications that quieted his heart but left hers racing. Once the doctor informed her that the patient was again stable but sedated, Penny pulled out her phone. She considered calling Carol to tell her what had happened but decided against it as their boy was now calm. Besides, there was nothing his mother could do for him—particularly as he was one cc of morphine shy of a medically induced coma. Instead, she dial the number of a man who spent his day surrounded by death, looking for answers and comfort.

"There is a chance that Timothy will not remember you telling him," Ducky informed her in a clinical voice. "He is on considerable doses of morphine, indomethacin and has intercostal nerve block feeding bupivacaine into his system. Those wreak havoc with the conscious mind and perception."

"That doesn't make me feel much better," she offered dryly.

Ducky chuckled quietly as he nodded his understanding before offering greater detail.

"This may not help you either, but you should understand it for context," he explained. "He is in an excruciating amount of pain. He has had thoracotomy, one of the most painful surgeries one can experience. Recovery is slow and can be its own form of agony. That much pain can warp the mind so I assure you all of these medications are necessary. Without them, his body would go into shock and his heart would likely arrest from it once and for all. By all indications, Dr. Westlake has masterfully balanced this pain management regimen so far as while keeping Timothy as conscious as possible. So while you believe his distress evening was caused by the information you provided it, it is just as possible that what you said to him made no sense to him due to the pain and the medication. His reaction could easily have been a manifestation of his physical pain rather than the impact of your words."

Penny sniffed as she nodded. Her anguished expression told Ducky that his attempt at comforting her had done mostly the opposite. He sighed. There was no answer he could give her that would refute what she knew or how she felt. It was anyone's guess if McGee would have remembered the losses on his own and still experienced the same pulmonary crisis as he had that evening. The dangerous spell of tachycardia and corresponding asthma attack which occurred might have happened regardless so in the medical examiner's opinion rehashing the event did no good.

"The important thing is that Dr. Westlake has him resting again and no irreparable harm came to him," Ducky counseled.

"I keep wondering what it will do to him if he doesn't actually remember losing his father-or worse, reconciling with him," Penny said with a worried voice. "If I have to tell Timothy that his father is gone again, I know it will hurt him, but what worries me more is what knowing he has lost memories will do to him. He is much tougher than most people think, but he identifies himself primarily by what he thinks and knows. If any of that has been taken from him, hie might not recover from that. And what if it is a large block of time that is now gone for him?"

Ducky considered her fears and shook his head with some confidence.

"That is unlikely," he answered. "Timothy is experiencing a great deal of stress as his mind tries to make sense of where he is, how he got here and what is going on. The drugs in his system render him unable to think clearly so confusion is an unfortunate but expected side effect. From what you have said, it appears that what he has forgotten are simply those things that caused him pain. The loss of Caitlyn Todd was the first time Agent McGee faced the untimely and violent loss of a close colleague. The death of his father was difficult for Timothy as there were many years of estrangement between them so to lose the man when they were on the verge of creating a more meaningful relationship was painful for him. Now, he himself has been shot. I can't help but wonder if blocking out anything emotionally traumatic is merely his mind trying to shield itself from anything painful for now."

After listening to Ducky's thoughts, Penny found some logic that she could accept. Carol had told her that Timothy spoke briefly to her when she arrived. He said he wanted to thank Gibbs for standing guard over him during the first part of this ordeal. If her grandson had truly lost more than a decade of memories, he might have been hesitant (and likely intimidated) by learning Gibbs was looming. While in the present day, there was a desire to please (and to not piss off) Gibbs, the same was not true for 10 years earlier. Penny knew her grandson had been still trying to prove himself to the tight-lipped, stern senior agent in the early years of their association. The young agent 10 years earlier would have panicked at the thought of his boss hovering around him. Instead, McGee seemed to take it in stride that Gibbs would be there—as if he almost expected it.

"When I told him his father was dead, it was like he was hearing it for the first time," Penny shook her head. "I'm the one who told Timothy the news when John actually died. Doing it twice was a uniquely vindictive act by the universe. Thank god Carol wasn't here. I know I should call her, but she has her hands full with Sarah. We're playing a man-to-man defense with my grandchildren right now. When one of us is here, the other will be with Sarah. She nearly triggered a cardiac crisis in him when she fell apart in Timothy's room after she got here."

Ducky knew the younger of the McGee siblings had a reactionary bend to her personality. From his colleagues at the hospital and from Penny, he learned that Sarah was on the verge of being revoked from visiting privileges by Dr. Westlake. Sarah had only been allowed to see her brother for a few short minutes but during that time, despite his apparent unconscious state, there was noticeable fluctuations in his vital signs demonstrating that he was reacting to the rising stress level in the room. Ducky thought it likely that McGee could hear and perhaps even understand that his sister was upset; his long embedded brotherly instincts to protect her likely kicked in and fought against the medications being administered to calm him. While Ducky felt badly that Sarah might not be afforded a great deal of visitation with her brother at this point, he had to agree with the doctor that anything that reduced his stress could only be an advantage for the patient.

"Penny, take heart," Ducky assured her. "Overall, Timothy is gaining ground. Even with his momentary crisis this evening, he is breathing on his own and has displayed no signs of a fatal arrhythmia. In several days, he should be well enough and aware enough to see his sister and have some of his current mis-perceptions corrected without fear that it will be detrimental to him."

Penny sighed and nodded her hopeful yet cautious agreement.

"I was thinking it would be good for him to see someone from your office," Penny said. "He spends so much time with his teammates that they're a source of security for him."

"They will certainly make time for Timothy," Ducky assured her.

"I know," she said. "But I wouldn't want to impose on Agent Gibbs. From what I have heard, he's practically down for the count himself."

Ducky chuckled knowingly but shook his head.

"Jethro will not rest until he has a handle on what happened at that base and why," Ducky answered. "The unhealthy impact on his own being is never a consideration from him. Tony was successful in getting him to leave the hospital, but he was not able to make the man rest. Jethro is back at the office already. If he is needed here again to help Timothy, I feel certain he would find the time."

Penny nodded but dismissed the offer. She was thinking more to the startling discussion she had with her grandson that lead to her renewed fears.

"I think it would be better if he saw Tony right now," she explained. "I know they don't always play nice together, but Tony has a way with him, and despite the grumbling I hear occasionally, I know they're close."

Ducky smiled at the accuracy of her instincts and her choice of visitor.

"That may have the most positive effect," Ducky noted. "Tony plays the role of the older brother with Timothy, and by what you have said he is someone Timothy asked about specifically. We know he was aware that Jethro had been with him. That left the rest of his close circle unaccounted for and therefore a point of worry. From my years of observation and your offerings tonight, I would not be surprised if it turns out that when you told Timothy that he was injured on the job, he instantly assumed his partners were injured first. You see, in his mind, they are the brave and strong ones. If he was injured, then to him it could only mean that they were harmed first because nothing could harm him when they were there to, as the saying goes, have his back."

Penny nodded. She had wondered that. Also, she saw genuine fear in her grandson's eyes when she explained that Kate was dead; doubt then appeared when Penny assured him that Tony was fine. Seeing his surviving partner with his own eyes surely would be helpful.

"He would be glad to help," Ducky said. "Their occasional spats and the appearance of juvenile sibling rivalry are indicative of their bond: brothers beneath the skin who occasionally get deeply under each other's skin. The only caveat on Tony visiting will be how deeply involved he is in the investigation. He is a dogged investigator, and this crime hit quite close to home for him. Of course, if he is unable to pry himself free, there is always Abigail. She and Timothy have a bond quite different from the one he shares with Tony, but it is undeniably deep."

Penny knew a great deal about that bond, or rather her grandson's part of it. Penny was surprised that the forensic scientist had not yet come to the hospital to see the patient. She could think of only two things that might be preventing her arrival: an avalanche of evidence needing her skills to interpret or an internal conflict riddled with guilt.

Her grandson's last email before going to Afghanistan left Penny with the suspicion that while it might be combination of the two possibilities, the second one was probably weighing more heavily on the scientist's mind.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Johns Hopkins—Elevator One Hour Later_**

Abby paced the confined space as the car ascended slowly. She had driven to Baltimore when she closed down her lab for the night. There was still work to do, but there was nothing more she could tackle that evening, particularly when her mind was 40 miles away, precisely where her heart wanted (and needed) to be.

She kept her arms folded tightly to prevent the trembling she felt in her limbs from appearing so obvious. Her nervous tremors had wreaked havoc on her work during the day making her mistype (and force retyping) any number of computer entries. She had dropped several slides and knocked evidence off her exam table. She sent her first (and eventually only) Caf-Pow of the day crashing to the floor before deciding caffeine wasn't going to be her miracle drug; rather she would need to rely on sheer adrenaline and willpower to get her through. People noticed, she knew, but had been understanding enough not to remark on it or ask her if she wanted to talk.

She didn't. Not yet.

She did catch several lingering looks and figured it was due to her wardrobe (the large, pink stain on her lab coat, primarily from the unintentional meeting of bleached white fabric and the deep red of a lost Caf-Pow). Also, she knew her ensemble was noticeably sedate. Her shoes were a pair of plain, chunky heel Maryjanes that had only three-inch platform soles. She wore a pair of black, capri cargo pants and a shirt of a matching shade that had simple cap sleeves and matt black buttons. There wasn't a bangle or a chain or a collar insight. The outfit was simply black on black, dread upon depression, further emphasized by the low pig tails that hung lank upon her shoulders. There wasn't a hint of eyeliner or black lipstick on her face to complete her defeated appearance.

As she stepped off the elevator and spied Ducky in the quiet waiting area, the first hint of color appeared in her cheeks as she flushed with sudden worry.

"Ducky," Abby said as she approached him with a dire expression appearing on her face. "You said you weren't coming to the hospital. Why are you here? What's wrong? What happened?"

"It's alright, Abigail," he assured her as he gestured to his companion. "Penny called me and asked me to come see her. I am here as a friend not in a professional capacity."

Abby sniffled and blinked back the tears that had been living constantly in her eyes each hour of the day since she learned about the attack in Afghanistan. She nodded her acceptance of Ducky's explanation and drew a steadying breath as he turned to his companion to offer a formal introduction.

"Penny, have you ever met our resident forensics expert at NCIS?" he asked. "Dr. Penelope Langston, this is Miss Abigail Scuito."

Penny nodded to her cordially as she held out her hands and clasped one of Abby's warmly.

"We've never met, but I know who you are, Abby," Penny said. "Timothy has mentioned you often over the years."

"How is he?" Abby asked as she chewed her lip. "I would have come sooner, but we had a lot of work because of… all of this. Not that work is more important than McGee… or even more important than checking on him. I just… I had obligations to help figure out…. things. And I wasn't ready to…"

"I understand," Penny assured her as she tightened her grip on Abby's hand. "Your time was better spent trying to figure out how all this happened. I want those answers and, when he's ready to hear about it, so will Timothy. Sometimes, the hardest thing about being responsible is not taking care of our own needs or wants but instead doing what must be done, no matter how much it makes us ache. Remaining in your lab to sift through whatever evidence they brought you must have been hard, but it was the right thing to do."

Abby nodded thankful for the woman's understanding. That day she had finished ballistics, which proved helpful, and fingerprints, which proved pointless. The next day she knew she would be doing trace and chemical analysis. She heard from Burley that if the cyber unit made no progress on cracking the vault on the laptop, and thus provided her with no hard drive to sort through, she would be processing the remaining evidence that had arrived from Afghanistan. Rumor in the office held that Tony was withholding some of it from her. Normally, she would be willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and figure he was doing as he required the items for some part of his work in the squad room.

But now, after he had kept information from her, information of such a dire nature, she didn't know what to think about his actions-or about him. But, she reminded herself as she shook those thoughts away, she was focused on McGee right now.

"Can I see him?" she asked in a small but hopeful voice.

Her hours of sleeplessness and sobbing night before were settled under her eyes and had further drained the color from her normally pale face. Penny looked on her with pity.

"I'm sorry but now is a bad time," Penny said.

"Why?" she asked. "I know I look pale and probably a little sickly, but that's just because I'm worried. I'm not sick or anything. I swear."

"No, it's not that," Penny explained. "It's because Timothy had a little bit of a setback tonight."

"Setback?" Abby questioned. "What does that mean?"

"They are using the term cardiac event," Penny began and watched the terror crash over the scientist's face.

"Did his heart stop?" Abby gasped as she raised a shaking hand to her mouth. "Is he okay? Does he need blood or surgery? Is it internal bleeding? What happened? Is Dr. Westlake not helping him? Ducky, do we need to call Gibbs?"

Ducky held up his hands to halt her spinning and spiraling anxiety. He grasped her trembling hand to calm her.

"Contrary to your belief, Jethro is not the solution for every misfortune," Ducky said in a friendly tone that he hoped conveyed his lack of fear for the patient at that moment.

"Well, we need to have someone do something," Abby said hurriedly as her agitation grew. "I've got Sister Rosita and a whole convent of nuns praying for him. I don't know that that will do any good, but it won't do any harm. I know, I feel, I should do something, here, for him. Only, when things are bad and I need answers and to help, I usually turn to Major Masspec, but this isn't something he can help with so I don't know what else I can do so I came here and…"

Ducky held out his arms and hugged her as tears erupted in her eyes. As he comforted her, he assured her as best he could as she trembled in his grasp.

"Timothy has all the expert help he needs at the moment," Ducky said. "He has a serious injury that requires a great deal of monitoring, which he is receiving from Dr. Westlake, who is performing superbly. This evening he experienced an elevated stress level that required additional medication to alleviate. He is resting again. Now, breathe Abigail before you faint due to lack of oxygen."

She exhaled the frozen breath she did not realize she had been holding. Ducky's scolding expression was sufficient warning for her to rein in her jitters and tap into the more controlled persona she had to be when in her lab when patience and precision were required. Penny regarded her with an understanding but pitying expression.

"You're upset, so seeing him right now would not be good for him," Penny said sorrowfully. "Right now, his memory is a little fuzzy and that is causing him stress. You're just roiling with that emotion yourself. He can't have that around him just yet. The calmer he is the better. I can see you're tired, and I'm sorry you drove all this way at such a late hour, Abby. Maybe you can see him in a few days when he's stronger and less confused."

"Confused how?" Abby wondered. "He doesn't understand why he's here? Or…?"

"We're not sure what he understands or remembers," Penny said. "He's asked some questions that have us a little concerned."

Abby narrowed her eyes shrewdly, taking a professional stance as she tried to dissect the evidence so that she could better understand what was happening.

"He's talking?" she noted with a small sigh of relief. "That's great. Talking means, you know, breathing and thinking and using words. That's… that's all good. What is he asking? What questions worry you?"

Ducky looked at Penny and receive a nod of permission. He sighed as a thoughtful but sad expression washed over his features as he explained that the patient had inquired about one current NCIS agent and one deceased one. Abby's chin dropped as she blinked in surprise upon next hearing McGee had asked to see his father.

"So he doesn't know what year it is?" Abby surmised. "He's forgot all this time?"

"Not exactly," Penny answered. "I asked him what he thought the date was. He said April 2015 so he was only off by a couple weeks. He just seems to have misplaced a few historical details… we hope."

"Poor Timmy," Abby gaped. "Is the memory loss permanent? What else doesn't he remember?"

"We don't know," Penny said. "They're bringing in a specialist soon to help figure out if the problem is organic or if this is more of a psychological reaction."

"Well, if you're worried he might not know me, you shouldn't," she said in a rush. "I met Tim around the same time Tony and Kate met him. And we're close. We have been… for a long time… sometimes closer than we have been recently, but even when we're not like really, really close, we're still close. I see him all the time, and it's been that way for more than 10 years. So, he'll know me. He will. I know it."

"I know how close you two have been," Penny said compassionately and knowing tone as she lay her hand on Abby's shoulder.

Abby felt her heart clench with sadness and worry for McGee. Brain damage or mental injury? She wasn't sure which the better option was. Brain damage could be irreversible, but a psychological injury for someone like McGee could be just as irrecoverable. His sense of worth and confidence were so tightly wrapped around his intellectual abilities. Any marring of that would hurt him just as badly as physical damage.

"Maybe if he talks to someone who spends a lot of time with him it will help," Abby suggested eagerly. "I've seen him nearly every day of his life for the last 11 years. We're…. very close. We work closely. A lot. Maybe seeing someone familiar like me will be good for him."

Penny saw the yearning in the woman's face and felt terrible denying her wish, but she did not think the risk was worth it. The distressing news about Kate and his father along with some semblance of understanding the possibility there might be something wrong with him sent McGee's heart hammering hard enough that it seemed it wanted to break through his still healing sternum. Even if Penny thought a visit with anyone would be wise in that very instant, she wasn't sure Abby would be the right person. His heart was physically broken. If his memory was sufficiently intact, Penny did not thing being reminded of his emotional heartbreak over the forensic scientist might not be the best way to keep him calm. They needed to keep his blood pressure and heart rate down to ensure they did not tear open the sutures holding the rupture in his chest together.

She shook her head at the request.

"I'm sorry, Abby," Penny said. "I just don't think now is a good time."

"I wouldn't cause him any distress," she vowed adamantly. "You don't know me, but I know I can keep him calm. Tim comes to me sometimes when he's all twisted up about things. I know how to help him feel better."

Penny sighed as she nodded understandingly.

"Abby, Timothy and I are very close, and we talk often," she replied firmly. "I know you are a friend, a special friend, to him and that you have been a true comfort to him at some difficult times, but I also know that… How do I say this? The nature of your friendship has its volatile moments as well, and those can make him very upset."

"I would never do anything to purposefully…," Abby argued as she shook her head.

"Then as someone cares about him, you should understand why his doctor and his family are being ultra-cautious about who can see him," Penny cut her off while patting her hand. "I am not saying you wouldn't be a great comfort to him at a different time. And you are not the only one who may have to wait another day or so to see him. We aren't even allowing his sister to see him right now."

"Sarah hasn't seen him?" she asked as her fear edged up another notch.

"She did, but only for a minute," Penny answered. "All it took was her crying in his room to cause a noticeable reaction from him. Even when he is stable, he is in a precarious state."

Abby's face fell and her chin dropped. She nodded her understanding while feeling dejected and destroyed. She would gladly do whatever she could to help, but she truly felt keeping her away was not going to accomplish that.

"I want him to get better, and I know I can help," she said as thick tears dripped off her lids. "I understand what you are saying and I understand why you are saying it. If I was in your position, I would be vigilant and wary, too, but if I knew what someone like me could do for him, I would consider letting me see him, even if just for a minute. Penny, please reconsider. I would like to see him if there is any way that can happen. He can even be asleep when I do see him. I promise not to wake him. You have my word. I just… I really need to see him. Please."

As her voice cracked at the end, Penny found herself petting Abby's cheek in a maternal fashion. She could see the anguish in the woman's eyes. She had known about Abby long before she met her. When her grandson began mentioning his coworker in conversations frequently, Penny questioned him. He freely admitted to having feelings for Abby and expressed his hopes that eventually she would feel the same way. Penny ached for him when he told her a while later that the depth of feelings between the two were not mutual and probably never would be.

It was his inclusion of the word ' _probably'_ that both made Penny proud and broke her heart. Her grandson would be the first to argue he was nothing like his father, but he was mistaken in one regard. He shared a pathological stubborn streak with the man. Where John McGee was bombastic and forceful in his stubbornness, his son was quiet and humble yet dogged in pursuing those things he chose to be stubborn about, whether it was his dream to be in law enforcement, his hope to write novels, or his desire to win the heart of a woman who steadfastly refused to commit to him. Penny had watched and been saddened over the previous decade as her grandson attempted to move on and find someone who could fill his heart, only to fail time and again to be left facing (day-in and day-out) the woman who he had actually fallen in love with but could never have as his own.

Penny knew his heartache for Abby never truly ended. With Delilah, he was undoubtedly content and at times sustainably happy, but it was a happiness without a spark. Given other circumstances, the two might have stayed together and been happy for a long time, but that was not the case. Now that she was gone from his life, he again had to face a solitude that included seeing the woman against whom he always (and unconsciously) compared all others. Abby had, from the moment they met, gotten into his head and into his blood like no other before or since. Of course, that was what also made her such a wild card for him—particularly now

While he was in Afghanistan, one of the emails McGee sent Penny mentioned a squabble he had with Abby before leaving. It wasn't much of a tiff, but he always felt any tension between them in an amplified manner. From the troubled look on Abby's face, Penny suspected she was feeling regrets that the two had parted on less than cordial terms. Penny wasn't certain she could trust her gut on this one, so she was going to take it to a higher authority.

"Let me talk to Dr. Westlake to see what she thinks," Penny relented. "Timothy is not completely sedated because they don't want to lower his heart rate and blood pressure too much, so we can't be sure when he's aware when someone is in the room. I should warn you, if it's decided that you can go in, it could be a while before he's relaxed enough for you to see him."

A relieved smile that still radiated her worry erupted on Abby's face at the information as she swiftly and brusquely hugged Penny.

"I don't mind waiting," she said eagerly. "I'll stay here all night if that's what it takes."

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Happy 4th, one and all. Haven't had time to read or respond to reviews as the only free moments lately have been spent writing. I'll get around to them, I promise! Hope you're enjoying the story.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Squad room_**

Evening skies grew even darker and rumbled at the Navy Yard as thick clouds blocked out the stars. Bishop rubbed her tired eyes as she looked at her phone, which had remained infuriatingly silent despite leaving numerous messages throughout the day with the executive assistant to Bradley Kimmel, the Vice President of Technology and Cyber Security with Simocorp in DC. Now that it was well past business hours, she knew no return call would be coming.

While the physical evidence of the actual assault was still being digested, NCIS was now broadening its sights to include the stubbornly mysterious laptop befuddling the specialists in the cyber unit. That mystery led the team to determine they needed to chat with someone at Simocorp, which was conveniently headquartered in the nation's capital.

Bishop was given that task and had been waiting hours for a call back. She had fully expected to get a heated message from the Director's office questioning why she was not marching into the Simocorp building on K Street to find Mr. Kimmel herself.

She was fully prepared to do so.

However, when Vance did a flyby through the squad room an hour earlier, she mentioned her intention in anticipation of his directive. Surprisingly, he curtly backed her off. He did not tell her to stop pursuing a sit down with Kimmel. He just told her to stay put while doing so.

That left her perplexed, as much as Tony's prolonged afternoon absence did. At first, she wondered if he had taken an extended break to drive the hour to Baltimore to check in on McGee, but then changed her mind. He was oddly showing very little outward concern for their teammate this day. Previously, his temper flared and his comments had been snappish regarding McGee, leading her to believe Tony was struggling with what happened to their partner and was looking for an outlet for his repressed protective feelings. Now, it was as if there was no concern at all.

What was nearly as perplexing as Tony's sudden avoidance of discussion about McGee was the persistent chatter about another individual with the same surname. Morning and even mid day in the squad room consisted of the continual yammering from Tony about McGee's mother. He seemed particularly delighted by a brief phone call he had with her the previous evening. What Mother McGee said precisely that was so wonderful, Bishop could not figure, but the senior agent mentioned three times that he really liked the way the trim, blond, middle-aged woman had called him " _Anthony_."

Bishop chastised herself for thinking the worst of Tony, for momentarily suspecting he had driven to the Maryland city just to assuage his smitten senses using the rouse of checking on McGee when what he truly wanted was some time with the family matriarch. Still, Bishop worried that he had been gone too long without any good cause. It was pushing two hours. The uneasy knots in her stomach had just started when Tony abruptly appeared leaving the elevator. He toted a sweat-beaded cup and straw along with a bag smelling of French fries and liberally stained with grease splotches.

"Dinner?" she wondered as she stared flatly at him. "Where did you go to get it? Virginia Beach?"

"It's actually a very, very late lunch, from Marv's across from the front gate—it's whatever was left on the grill before he closed for the night," Tony said sucking loudly on his drink before diving his hand into the bag to retrieve a sloppily wrapped burger dripping ketchup and relish as she stared in his direction. "Don't judge me."

She turned up her nose at the meal. She was hungry. In fact, she had worked through her lunch as well, only eating a sad tangerine she found in her bag. It reminded her of the unhelpful company information on Simocorp she had picked through at home the night before when she brought files home and ate her lunch's twin for dinner. Both the fruit and the file offerings had been unsatisfying each time.

"Where were you?" she asked.

"Silver Springs," he replied. "McGee's sister texted me and asked me to get a few things from his apartment, like his iPod and a St. Christopher's medal that had been his grandfather's."

Bishop wrinkled her brow in confusion and disbelief on why or how either would aid in recovery while in a critical care unit. From Ducky's update for her earlier, it would be several more days before McGee would be conscious enough for visitors. He was certainly not asking for some tunes to while away his days.

"Sarah thinks listening to music will keep him relaxed," Tony explained. "She was adamant actually that she needed those things. Trust me, when that girl gets an idea in her head there isn't much you can do to change it."

"Okay," Bishop nodded. "Why was she so adamant? Did something happen? Palmer said Ducky got a call from McGee's grandmother then went to Baltimore to see her."

Tony raised his eyebrows and smirked briefly. If not for the drama in the McGee family currently, he might have let his mind (and perhaps mouth) wander through thoughts of a booty call, but he kept silent.

"Ducky and Penny are just friends… allegedly," Tony said. "I'm sure he's just keeping her company and consoling her. Sarah didn't say much to me, but she was anxious which I read to mean she's struggling after seeing her brother. She's a hard one to pin down. She has a caustic facet to her personality and a bit of a temper, but she also can sit in an interrogation room while under suspicion for murder and still manage to study for an English exam. Carol's kids are each freaks in their own way, I guess."

"Did you see him yet?" Bishop asked pointedly.

"No," Tony said quickly as he averted his eyes. "I told you I called the nurse's desk before lunch. They said he was resting. If anything changed, Carol would call."

Bishop spied the way he grinned in an impish, little boy way as he said her name. The reason behind it, when it hit her, seemed obvious to the point of ridiculousness.

"So, that's what this is," Bishop asserted with a determined nod. "All these little smirks and chatter about her. You're not hot for Mrs. McGee."

"Hot for…," Tony shook his head in offense. "I'm not hot for her."

"No, you're not," Bishop agreed. "You've got a mom crush."

Tony shirked at the proclamation but his face took on a pinkish tinge.

"A what?" he scoffed then shook his head while a guilty expression washed over his face. "I don't have a…."

"Mom crush," she asserted as she continued to nod. "You think Mrs. McGee, I'm sorry, I mean _Carol_ , is pretty for a middle-aged woman, but..."

"She is," Tony nodded. "Did I tell you that she looks like Sybil Sheppard? McGee kind of has her eyes—the shape anyway—and that same fair, milky complexion. On him, it's what repels women, but on her it's…."

Bishop rolled her eyes at the statements but felt he was making her case all the same.

"Yeah, all that's nice, but what you really like is that she calls you ' _Anthony'_ and asked how you were doing and thanked you for being such a good friend to her son," she charged. "I thought you were interested in her as a woman in a sexual way, which frankly seemed odd because you're you and she's Gibbs' age."

Tony shuddered at the thought, although mostly it was at the thought of thinking of Carol and Gibbs in a pairing, which had crossed his mind in the instant that Bishop lumped them together on the age issue. However, he dismissed it swiftly as ludicrous since Carol was allegedly seriously involved with a man who was big in real estate in Texas… or so he surmised from hearing that the mysterious "Griffin" had arranged for a townhouse for her to stay in with Penny and Sarah for the duration of McGee's hospital stay.

"I can't believe I didn't see it right off," Bishop said confidently. "Your mother passed away when you were young. You got stuck in boarding schools and then were saddled with a string of trophy wives your father brought home who never made good stepmothers. Now, while you work through your feelings of worry and guilt over what happened to Tim, you encounter an attractive and maternal woman who soothes you."

"Ellie, there's no such thing as a mom crush," Tony shook his head as he scoffed.

"There wasn't until you created it in your mind and then made it obvious so that I couldn't ignore it," she replied. "Sorry to ruin this for you, Tony, but she will never love you the way she loves her son."

Tony rolled his eyes and tried to put the discussion out of his mind. It was ridiculous. He was a grown man. A confident man. An independent man—a manly man at that. He did not need or want a mom.

Of course, he told himself, if he did, it would be nice if she looked and acted like Carol, and was kind and poised like Carol. It would also be nice if she said his name, his actual name, the way Carol did. It would be amazing if she knew how to bake cookies, he thought off-handedly. Carol just seemed like she could do something like that and would maybe send him some on his birthday… if he asked.

"You're obviously wrong about all of that," Tony said abruptly. "But now that you mention it, Tim is like a younger, awkward, geeky, completely in need of mentoring, younger brother to me. I think Carol appreciates that I look after him and have been such a good friend to him over the years."

"Does that include the time you superglued his fingers to his keyboard?" Bishop challenged, recalling that and a litany of other pranks she was told Tony had sprung on his usually unsuspecting partner. "How about the month before last when you…?"

Tony stood up from his desk fast, sending his chair sliding into the wall partition. He looked guiltily and aggressively across the room.

"Hey, no one likes a tattle tale, Ellie," he said. "I pick on my McGeek because I care. If I didn't do that stuff, who would? Probably… well, someone else, but they wouldn't do it with the respect and care that I do. They would just be doing it to be mean. I do it out of… brotherly love."

She mouthed the word 'okay' and nodded in a condescending manner. Tony scrunched up his face in a pouting fashion the returned to his lunch at his desk.

"I didn't think McGee was religious," Bishop remarked and caught Tony's questioning look as he dove back into his burger. "You said you went to his apartment to get a St. Christopher's medal for him."

He explained the medallion wasn't for McGee. It was for his sister. Sarah apparently needed the talisman for her own comfort. It had been a possession of their grandfather and for whatever reason, the little sister of the McGee clan needed to have it with her. Bishop nodded, letting the conversation drift back to the case at hand.

"Learn anything new while I was gone?" Tony asked through a full mouth.

Bishop's initial answer was going to be negative, but that would not have been entirely truthful.

"Actually, I did, but it's not helpful," she said, recalling her last bit of research into the final victim of the attack. It felt invasive to look into her teammate's life the way she did, but it was necessary. "Did you know McGee has a formal complaint from the Deputy Secretary of State in his file? It's from 11 years ago."

"Eleven years?" Tony remarked, licking salt thoughtfully off his fingers. "That would be during Probie's authentic probie-days. He was following Gibbs' order."

"So you were there when he cut her off during a conference in MTAC in front of a room full of intel analysts and technicians?" Bishop asked. Tony shook his head. "Then how do you know he was doing what Gibbs told him to do?"

"Because 11 years ago, the only way McGee would do anything like that would be at the boss's direction," Tony replied confidently. "McGee was different then. Well, a bit anyway. There is no way he just shot off his mouth after magically growing a pair that day. Obviously, he borrowed a spare set from Gibbs."

Bishop nodded, accepting the assessment. She pulled up her notes about the incident and perused them with interest.

"It says he was arrogant, insolent and utterly unprofessional," she stated. "I can't picture McGee being any of those—unless it's to you and you've egged him on first. I mean, he can be a little snippy about some techno knowledge, but authentically arrogant just doesn't fit. I think that he'd get physically ill if he tried to be insolent."

Tony snorted half-way between agreement and disagreement. He thought for a moment, as he finished his burger and lofted the wrapper expertly into the trashcan beside the empty desk to his right, Admiral McDaddy didn't pass on the arrogance gene.

"And unprofessional just sounds wrong like the rest of the complaint," Bishop continued shaking her head at the reprimand letter. "I could picture all those from you, but not him."

"Well, what can I say?" Tony boasted. "He's a boy scout with several merit badges in innocence and naivety whereas I am, what's the word again? Oh yeah, an adult."

Bishop wrinkled her nose (holding her tongue to call him an adult with a _mom crush_ ) while disregarding the information in the Deputy Secretary's letter as an overreaction from a career bureaucrat over being denied answers about something that was probably not her business in the first place.

"Well, the boy scout also has an arrest on his record for breaking into a Metro PD impound yard," she marveled.

Tony smirked. He really had to thank his friend at Metro for refusing to delete that record entirely. Tony's own was long gone, but the fun he experienced watching the shame and embarrassment on McGee's face every time his record, the one that was legally expunged, crawled back into the light was priceless.

"There are also a handful of written request from the FBI, Homeland Security, the CIA and even the NSA (that read a lot like threats) requesting formal reprimands for cyber breeches," she remarked. "One of them is written by my former supervisor. In my experience, people who made him mad like this usually just disappeared."

Those people never worked for Gibbs, Tony thought to himself but then simply scoffed his verbal reply.

"So?" he said. "Let that be lesson on first impressions for you. McGee's innocent angel image is not even keyboard deep."

"None of this confounds me," Bishop replied. "I was just surprised at a few of his subtle layers—like finding out that he and Abby were a thing once long ago. Knowing these little details just make me really wonder what he did that got him that NIS subject ID number all those years ago."

Tony grunted noncommittally then turned his attention to his email. Midway through scanning the subject lines, he paused then looked up sharply and regarded her with a questioning gaze.

"Wait, say that again," he commanded. "What about an NIS case?"

"I was saying everything I read in his personnel file today makes me curious what he did that got him in a case file all those years ago," she replied with a shrug as she returned to looking at the information she had compiled on Simocorp while she wondered how long she was going to wait for a company official to return her numerous calls.

Tony was not so easily put off. There was something amiss in her offering. After all, McGee had still been in high school when the agency changed its name from NIS to NCIS, Tony explained; therefore, their partner could never have created an _NIS_ case file.

"No, he didn't create one," Bishop corrected him. "He's the subject of one, or he's at least mentioned in one apparently. He has an NIS subject identification number. You look surprised. You mean after all the snooping and violating of his privacy you've done over the years, you never knew that?"

"I would be very interested for you to tell me what I don't know," Tony said eagerly as his curiosity was piqued. "What case file? What was it about?"

He left his desk and moved to the side of hers where he looked at her intently. Bishop blinked, startled by the sudden focus on what she believed was a pointless bit of trivia that, as Tony had just suggested, might be a mistake.

"I have no idea what it's about," Bishop shrugged as he loomed over her. "It's from a file opened in 1986 so it's not digitized, and I don't have the paper record."

A subject ID was different from a record ID. A subject ID was simply a numeric identifier used as just that, a way to identify subjects (other than suspects) encountered during an investigation. It helped the agency keep track of people should they appear in other case files in the future. A record ID was reserved for those who were arrested as suspects, fingerprinted, DNA profiled and sent forward for prosecution.

"McGee was only eight in '86," Tony wrinkling his brow in interest. "The only way he gets a subject ID in an NIS case file is if he was…"

"A victim or a witness," she offered. "You've known him longer. What's the odds on favorite?"

"That it's gotta be a mistake," Tony shook his head. "There must be more than one person encountered by the Navy named Timothy McGee in 1986. It's not exactly an insanely unique name. Where was the record created?"

"West coast," Bishop answered. "The file isn't stored in the annex so I called San Diego first. They said the sequence of numbers wasn't from their office so it had to be created at Naval Air Station…."

"Alameda," Tony finished the sentence and raised his eyebrows. "Damn."

"Damn what?" Bishop wondered. "Like you said, it could be a mistake. There were no eight-year-olds in the Navy in 1986."

"No, but you said Alameda," Tony informed her. "The base is closed now, but in the 1980's it was homeport to the blue water Navy's nuclear powered aircraft carriers, and the biggest and most prestigious of them was the USS Enterprise."

She looked on blankly without seeing any connections in his offerings. Tony continued to keep his face scrunched in thought as he spied her not following his train of thought.

"It's easy to forget, but McGee was a Navy brat, Ellie," Tony said perching on the edge of her desk. "His father was once the Captain of the Enterprise. Imagine, even with their strained relationship that had to be a real kick for a geek like McGee to know that his dad was the captain of the Enterprise."

He smiled at the thought, finding it cool himself on some level. After a polite pause for his internal revelry, he cleared his throat to continue

"That posting was what led to the old man to getting his admiral's stars," Tony explained. "Back then, the McGee clan was stationed on the west coast. He mentioned once in passing that when he was in grade school and junior high that they were at Alameda."

His brow narrowed further with intense interest while recalling a sidebar conversation years earlier: McGee trying to explain to Ziva the appeal of childish Halloween pranks. That memory settled Tony's mind on the question of the file and made him relax.

"If the ID number is his, it's probably just a vandalism investigation," Tony nodded waving off his interest as he moved back to his desk. "Must not have been anything big or McGee would never have gotten this far."

"The agency is that strict on juvenile behavior?" she asked.

"No, his father would have killed him," Tony said knowingly as he remembered his partner's description of the admiral's strict rules about behavior.

"An NIS file for vandalism?" Bishop questioned.

"Well, it if was vandalism involving an uptight officer you shouldn't mess with unless you're young and stupid but think you're smart and have a bunch of friends who also match that description," Tony shrugged. "I'm betting the incident was on Halloween. He was probably just questioned along with his little friends about pranks involving the base commander's office furniture. I figure Admiral, then Captain, McGee was probably in the Persian Gulf a lot in the late '80s so little Timmy was without his warden. Then again, he might have done it to get caught. Maybe negative attention was better than none from the Great Santini."

Tony looked over at the empty desk adjacent to his and sighed and thought pityingly of his partner, the open book who was still always a bit of a mystery.

"The great who?" Bishop asked but was ignored.

"How did you hit on the ID number in the first place?" Tony asked, wondering where all his searching and perusing over the years had failed him.

"I just ran his social security number," Bishop replied. "Actually, I accidentally transposed two numbers in his SSN and typed it in wrong, but it pulled up his name under that wrong number."

Tony cocked his head to the side at hearing that. Gibbs' admonishments about coincidences began to echo in his mind, but he tried to ignore them.

"So maybe it's not him," Tony suggested in a way that reeked of doubt.

"Maybe," she said but shook her head. "Do you have any idea the probability of typing in a nine-digit number belonging to only one person, mis-keying it, but coming up with the identical name belonging to the correct number yet it actually turns out to be someone else entirely?"

"It should not surprise you that I don't, but I get what you're saying," Tony replied. He fixed his face into a thoughtful expression as Bishop stared at him. "So if his SSN is there but typed wrong, it seems kind of… convenient."

"Overly," she nodded following his thoughts. "It's more like someone tried to hide the record but not delete it so there was plausible deniability? You think because his father was a high-ranking officer that someone did that for him, to make it disappear without making it look like they made it disappear? Like they did it as a favor so the sins of the son wouldn't blemish the father's career? It's a bit over the top for a mere vandalism investigation."

Tony pondered the possibility for a moment. The whole exercise, he knew, was pointless and a waste of time they should be spending on trying to unravel the Afghanistan mystery. Still, 48-hours into the Washington-based part of the investigation with no real leads for them, any momentary distraction was good for rejuvenating the mind, he decided.

"Well, you never met the man," Tony shook his head thinking of the stern and unapproachable admiral. "And, technically, neither did I, but I got an impression. Picture Gibbs without his warm, cuddly charm."

Bishop blinked at the thought then grimaced. Tony nodded in agreement.

"It's hard to say if the Admiral would have gotten little Timmy out of trouble using his influence or if he'd have requested that the book be thrown at him for even a small childhood mistake," Tony continued. "From what I know, Admiral McGee was kind of a pompous jackass. He and McGee had a difficult relationship, to the point of having none at all from pretty much the time McGee got stationed here at the Navy Yard until the last 10 months of his life."

"Why?" Bishop asked. "What caused a decade of estrangement?"

Tony looked at the empty desk and thought of the man who sat there who, even if he was in the room, would not give that answer. His code of family privacy was strict enough to rival any number of secret intelligence agencies. Whether that was because there were legitimate secrets to hide or simply a desire to keep his private life precisely that, Tony never did learn.

"No idea," he replied. "Just stands to reason, I guess. He wanted Tim to do something he could be proud of and this job wasn't it. I figure he didn't understand pretty much most of what comes out of McGee's mouth—you know, like the rests of us. Think about it: The guy is a four-star admiral and his son makes a career of investigating the Navy. Tell me that's not a therapist's dream. So, put all that together and it stands to reason there would be certain distance between them. You have a headstrong, arrogant, fast-rising star of the fleet who ended up with an asthmatic geek of a son who gets sea sick if you say the word boat to him. Not exactly a recipe for deep father/son bonding. Then again, there is that wild card aspect to the McGee family. The Admiral might have been proud if Tim got in trouble pulling a childhood prank that didn't hurt anyone—it might have made him seem like a real boy."

Tony smirked at the thought while Bishop shrugged. The explanation just raised a whole host of questions for her about her teammates. She did not have the same family issues as the rest of them. She had a good relationship with her parents and her brothers. No issues. No problems. No drama. No need for therapy.

"Well, there's no indication in the electronic record what the case was about," Bishop said dismissively, turning her attention away from the useless information as she returned her sights to Simocorp. "Must be it got swept under the rug by the guy who opened the file; agent's name is listed as Franks."

Tony choked on the final slurp of his soda as he looked at her with a startled expression.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Director's Office_**

Vance's eyes bulged as he clenched the muscles in his jaw. He sat firmly in his chair, impressed that he still could following the ass chewing he just received from the Deputy Secretary of the Navy. He understood that the reaming was pro forma—giving SecNav herself some distance from the situation so it did not appear she was ignoring the concerns of certain senators and congressmen while also not directly derailing or interfering with the investigation—but that didn't mean Vance had to like it.

He was politically savvy and expected some pushback and pressure as the investigation into the Afghanistan heated up, but they were just getting started. Having his wrist soundly slapped so early was disturbing and did not bode well for support from his chain of command as it progressed.

"They want the laptop back," Vance told Gibbs as he exhaled loudly through his nose.

"Want is a terrible feeling," Gibbs remarked.

"They are filing an injunction with DC Circuit in the morning," Vance informed him.

"We have lawyers too, Leon," Gibbs said. "We must pay them to do something other than keeping me from getting warrants when I need them."

Vance snorted.

"Have we made any progress on breaking the encryption or getting into that blocked partition?" he asked.

"Cyber unit is stumped," Gibbs reported. "Abby's had no luck so far. What we need…"

"Is McGee," Vance snorted his disapproval.

"I was going to say someone who knows what they're looking at," Gibbs finished his sentence. "We don't know that McGee knew anything more about the laptop. If he did, he didn't leave notes."

"He only confiscated that one laptop," Vance said. "He had to have a reason. A hidden partition is intriguing, but it's not exactly unheard of. There was something about this device that got his attention and made him want to use a secure server. Only he can tell us what that was. Any update on when or if he'll be able to speak to us?"

Gibbs worked his jaw loose as it tightened with the director's tone. The team leader was still tired and not back on east coast time yet. He spent a short hour getting rest on his couch, but there were too many questions in his head that needed answers.

"His mother got three words out of him—the first he's spoken since last Friday night," Gibbs replied gruffly. "None of them were about laptop encryption."

Vance let the tone slide. Gibbs was obviously still too beat to even pretend he felt like playing nice. Vance had lost agents as the director. He lost a partner once to a North Korean assassin, but he never led a team. His work was generally solo. He never developed the bond with agents that Gibbs did. As the director, he considered his aloof nature and his ability to keep his distance from them a strength in running the agency.

It also left him with a longing. Although he might deny it, Vance did not loom on the upper mezzanine staring down into the squad room because he liked to feel superior or to watch the troops from above. He did it to simply observe them and how they interacted—Gibbs' team in particular. The comradery, while chaotic and at times less than fully professional, reminded Vance of the days when he spent his time at a boxing club. There was a closeness, a trusts, a bond between them that was as strong as and protective as any family ties he could imagine.

"I'm looking for answers, Gibbs," he said as the agent's gaze remained cold. "When he's ready to talk, we talk to him. That's all I'm saying."

Gibbs nodded. He knew Vance liked McGee. They both spoke the incomprehensible language of computer code and so shared something that many others in the agency did not. Vance had chosen McGee to head up the cyber hunt for a mole in the agency several years ago, sending Gibbs's tech-savvy agent to the subbasement of the cyber unit to crack some mysterious code. While Gibbs did not doubt Vance wanted his agent to make a full recovery, that hope was only partly based on a humanitarian reason. The other was more business focused: McGee's skills were needed.

But laptops and computer codes were not at the top of Gibbs' gut's list of topics needing answers. Something, or rather, someone else was. He had told Vance as much when he first entered the office.

"We need to follow the leads we have evidence for, Gibbs," Vance reminded him.

"We will," he replied.

"And what's your evidence that makes you want to look into a flag officer who was hundreds of miles away from where the shooting occurred?" the director asked bluntly.

"Nothing I can put an evidence tag on," Gibbs admitted. "But his name keeps coming up. Can't ignore that."

Vance gave his subordinate a stern look that had precisely zero effect, just as he knew it would.

"Tread lightly and get me answers I can report to SecNav," Vance insisted. "The trail is getting cold, Gibbs."

Gibbs turned to leave the room. As he walked away, he offered his parting thoughts.

"Aw, it's May on the Potomac, Leon," Gibbs said as he pulled open the office door. "This is when things usually start to heat up."

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	9. Chapter 9

**oOoOoOo**

 ** _Johns Hopkins_**

The nurse tapped Abby on the shoulder. She shook awake, having dozed off while sitting in a chair in the small waiting room down the hall from McGee's room. She was glad for the disturbance. The flashing images in her head of bloody crime scenes and funerals left her heart pounding and shivers coursing under her skin.

"Miss Scuito, you can go in now for a few minutes," the nurse said, ushering her down the hall. "I'm told that you're used to seeing graphic crime scene photos, but I think you'll find the experience of seeing someone you know suffering to be difficult. It's best if you prepare yourself. He has a bandages covering the incision, but the bruising around it is visible. He is sleeping now; I noted some signs of REM so it is a fairly deep sleep. Regardless, I'm cautioning you to be as quiet as possible. Also, despite the strong pain meds he's on, he tends to respond to physical contact so resist the urge to touch him as that could wake him. Don't even try to hold his hand. No contact. No noise of any kind. Understood?"

Abby nodded solemnly as she stepped into the room to find it lit only with the light of the many monitors surrounding the bed and a small light in the far corner near a folding metal chair. The machines hummed and whirred softly taking note of every vital sign, respiration, and heartbeat the pale and very still form under the sheet made.

The nurse was right.

Looking at him was hard.

There were hollows in his cheeks and deep, dark smudges under his closed eyes. A nasal cannula delivered a steady flow of oxygen and wires snaked out of his chest feeding the monitors surrounding him, like something out of a scifi film. Beyond the medical equipment tying him to the machines ringing the room, he looked broken and skeletal, something out of a Halloween horror flick. Her throat closed on a hard, dry lump that formed there as she was struck suddenly by her last words to him before this happened: Just go away.

She nearly choked on the regret that memory caused.

She had been mad but not entirely at McGee—not really. It was Burt, or not so much Burt, but the predicament with Burt. He was preparing to leave that week and Abby was both happy for him and sad for his departure. They had known the farewell was coming for several weeks, but when Burt's transfer paperwork came through it still seemed sudden to her. What was more sudden was Burt asking her to leave NCIS and apply for a job in Las Vegas. He was certain she would be hired by police out there and could continue to be a part of his life. She explained to him that wasn't possible, not in the way he wanted but that she hoped they would always be friends. He did not take that line well and ended their friendship and therefore disappeared from her world entirely.

That McGee was the only one who noticed the man's disappearance rankled Abby.

It did not surprise her precisely, but she did not like being asked about it or reminded of it—especially from the one who told her a month earlier that she needed to give Burt more of a chance. It was always difficult to have a relationship when McGee was around. She could handle the little eruptions of jealousy, but when he had advocated for her to actually pursue a relationship, it rocked her on her heels. She initially took his advice and did not break up with Burt, but the more she thought about it, the more McGee's encouragement bothered her.

He had never tried to give her away to anyone before. It hurt to think that maybe that was what he was doing. He had been happy with Delilah, but Abby also knew that he had broken up with her. Palmer had let her know. That's what made his apparent concern for Burt that day so odd. It made it seem like McGee truly no longer held an interest in Abby. That possibility led to several sleepless nights for her. It was incidents like that which made her miss Kate even more. Kate was someone Abby could talk to about McGee and get her head on straight. Thinking of that had made Abby remember the advice of Kate's sister, Rachel, during her psychological evaluation of the team several years earlier. She had wondered if maybe Abby looked too hard for her soulmate away from NCIS when there appeared to be, in her professional opinion, a viable candidate several floors up.

Abby's confused pondering was in full agitation mode when McGee had wandered into her lab prior to leaving for Afghanistan. He was simply saying a farewell and at the end, asked about Burt.

It did not bring out the best in Abby that afternoon. She snapped at him, loudly and angrily. He took the lashing well, holding up his hands in the classic McGee surrender pose then walked out of the lab sulking like a punished puppy. She had felt badly about doing that to him and fully intended to apologize but the day got away from her. Before she made it to the squad room, he had already left to catch the flight for his overseas duty.

Now, the unthinkable happened, and she had no means to apologize.

Abby stared at him, unmoving and oblivious to her presence. She had seen her colleagues in pain and ailing before. This felt like those times and yet it was also different. When Tony was taken away to treat his exposure to Y Pestis, he was full of bravado and vigor to fight. When Gibbs was in the coma, the doctor's knew he would survive—they were just waiting for him to pick the moment to wake up. When Kate died, it was over quickly and her future (or lack of it) was certain.

This was something else entirely.

McGee appeared fragile and wasted to the point of fading into nothingness. The doctors were the ones keeping him asleep because being awake was presenting too many challenges for his healing heart to handle. Whether he would win this battle (or how long that might take) were huge, lingering questions no one could yet answer.

Abby pressed her hand over her mouth to keep from sobbing out loud. As she gained control of her breathing, she buried her face in her hands as her mind held the conversation her lips were not permitted to utter.

 _Timmy, I want to talk to you. I want to hug you and tell you this is all going to be okay, but I can't. I can't speak to you to let you know that I'm here or to say I'm sorry I snapped at you the last time we spoke. I can't even touch you, not even to hold your hand and reassure you that you're going to get through this. I can't comfort you in any way or show you what you mean to me or how much I want you to get better. I can't do anything but sit here and pretend I don't exist._

As she sat beside the bed with her head hung low, she did not notice the subtle shift in the position of his head on the pillow. She did not see him turn his head slightly toward her or the slow flutter of his eyelids as they opened. McGee stared at her for several moments as his eyes lazily focused as he fought through the haze of the medications.

He had no difficulty recognizing her. It just took him several minutes to figure out what she was doing. When he finally did, his mind struggled to understand why. As no answer came to him, he did what seemed natural: He asked.

"Abby," McGee said in a breathy, slow whisper. "What's wrong?"

She sniffled and looked up to see his eyes, unnaturally droopy with the drugs and cloudy from the many days of heavy medications, looking at her with an innocent and bewildered expression. She was certain that if she was hooked up to a monitor to her heart, she would find it was not be beating as slowly or steadily as McGee's in that instant. She cut her eyes quickly at the door, expecting either the doctor or one of his family members to rush in and hurry her out with a scolding expression. However, the doorway remained vacant as she returned her attention to the patient.

"McGee," she whispered while smiling through her tears. "It's past your bedtime. You're supposed to be sleeping."

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Breaking the restrictions hardly seemed like an issue to Abby as he had awoken on his own. Her ears picked up no distressing blips from his many monitors so she slid the chair closer to the bed and placed her hand on his forearm, mindful of the IV lines. He continued to look at her with a vacant gaze, but his eyes narrowed in a way that seemed to reflect more worry than exhaustion. She sighed at his question. He was worrying about her rather than his own circumstance.

"I'm fine," she assured him quietly. "I've been worried about you, that's all. Now, you need to go back to sleep."

"You're crying," he noticed.

"Happy tears," she lied and fought the urge to continue the conversation and say everything welling up in her at that moment. "I'm just so glad to see you, but you need rest. I made a deal with the fleet of formidable ladies taking care of you. They let me in, but only on the condition that you remained asleep. You're being naughty not keeping up your end of the bargain, McGee."

He looked at her with a dazed expression. Abby wasn't sure if he did not understood her or was just processing her words slowly. He simply continued to gaze at her quietly with his thoughts hidden behind a veil of fatigue, pain, and medication. Rather than push him, she simply gazed back, stroking his arm slowly as she watched his lids finally grow heavy and begin to dip.

"Sorry," McGee said softly as he struggled to open his eyes again.

"Shh," she shushed him. "Don't worry. I'm really happy to see you and hear your voice, but you really need to go back to sleep."

"Sorry I asked about Burt," he mumbled then drifted off back into his medicated unconsciousness.

She wanted to tell him not to be, but that would mean waking him. She felt a heavy twist in her chest at the sorrow and regret she heard from him as he apologized. She wondered what the fact that he remembered her snapping at him about Burt meant regarding his memory gaps. She would need to confess the conversation so that the information could be used in diagnosing the problem. Of course, that would also likely get her banned from visiting him again as it would show she broke the rules on letting him rest. Still, she reminded herself, his well-being was more important than her aching heart.

Rather than worry about her punishment, Abby decided reporting her information was more important that assuaging her need to sit with him. Penny's words about doing the responsible thing rather than giving in to her own needs came back to her as support for her decision. However, she decided a silent farewell was not required. In fact, she found it impossible.

She stood up and leaned over him as she whispered.

"I should have told you this a long time ago," Abby said as her voice quavered with emotion. "The day I met you, I didn't know how important you would become to me, but I know it now. I'm sorry I haven't told you that before. Rest well, Timmy. Everyone wants you to get better, and I… I just need you."

She then kissed his cheek softly (glad she was not wearing lipstick that would leave behind a telltale mark) before walking to the nurse's station to make her report.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Squad room_**

The lights in the room were dimmed when the majority of the staff left for the night. The only lights still burning in the room were the small LED bulbs in the desk lights on Tony's desk and the one near Gibbs. Not surprisingly, they were the only people still in the room (probably even in the building, Tony suspected).

Bishop left hours earlier, chewing on thoughts of how to get an elusive and uncooperative VP from Simocorp to bend to her considerable will the next day. Tony would have felt a little sorry for the guy if not for wanting him sitting in front of them giving direct answers. He shook his head at that task. It was one he would tackle the next day. For now, he was pondering an old case, a case he knew nothing about but that had consumed most of his thoughts since he learned of its existence. He had thought long and hard on whether he should continue to dig at it and come up with the unsatisfying answer of maybe.

That left him with the option of confessing his distraction to Gibbs or doing what Tony did best: shoot from the hip and see what happened.

"Something on your mind, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked from his desk as he continued reading the most updated reports on the investigation. With pen in hand, he scribbled in the margin of one page and frowned. Since leaving Gibbs' team years earlier, Burley seemed to have forgotten how to adhere to the "brief" part of writing a case brief.

Tony was startled by the question until he realized that he had been staring in the direction of Gibbs' desk without actually seeing the man. His thoughts had been many miles and many years away from the office during them.

"Uh, yeah, a lot," Tony said. "You know, I was thinking today about the first time we worked with McGee. You remember that?"

"I haven't developed Alzheimer's," Gibbs said without looking up.

"No, of course not, Boss," Tony said. "I just meant, I was thinking about that and this question I've always had. After the case was closed, he came here to deliver his report in person. Well, really he was here to meet Abby, but that's not the point."

"So if that's not the point, does that mean you actually have one?" Gibbs asked, looking up finally with a narrow gaze over the rims of his reading glasses.

Tony grimaced. The boss hated it when his time was wasted on idle chatter. Tony swallowed his regret for rambling then nodded confidently as he rose from his chair and crossed the room to stand in front of Gibbs' desk.

"You knew McGee's background," Tony asserted. "You knew where he went to college for his undergraduate degree and where he went for his masters. You barely made eye contact with him when we first met him. You barked at him once and might have shoved past him, but other than that you had no interaction with him really. How did you know about his education?"

Gibbs sighed.

"Well, obviously I did some investigating, DiNozzo," he said. "You tell me we've got a dead body in an oil drum at Norfolk and the agent on scene is fresh from the academy. Just makes sense to know what I'm walking into, don't you think?"

Tony nodded. That answer seemed rather obvious now that he heard it.

"Well, yeah," he agreed. "I just didn't know when you had the time or why you didn't ask me or Kate to do it for you. I just… I wondered if you'd ever met him before that or if knew someone who did. You were an agent for quite a while before I met you. McGee's family was Navy. I was just wondering if you ever had any…"

Before he finished his question, Gibbs' had stripped off his glasses and was giving him a flat and suspicious stare—the one he gave suspects when he was on the verge of breaking them in the interrogation room.

"What are you asking?" Gibbs asked.

"Did you know McGee has a subject ID in an old NIS file?" Tony asked as he lowered his voice. Gibbs' brow furrowed which was an answer in itself. "Yeah, me either. At first, I thought it was probably some childhood prank thing that got on someone's radar."

"The base commander's recliner out on the runway?" Gibbs ventured having heard the story when his team should have been working but instead ruined precious silence with chatter about a holiday dedicated to mayhem.

"Yeah," Tony smirked then grew solemnly serious, "but I don't think so considering the NIS agent who opened the file was one the agency didn't send to look into child pranks. Boss, the agent who created the file was Mike Franks."

The rapid change in Gibbs' expression would have been missed by anyone who did not know him well. The shift in the brow line and the slight straightening of the mouth were signs of surprise. The miniscule flexing of the muscles in his jaw were suspicion. The quick flick of his eyes to the desk then returning them to DiNozzo's face were anger.

"How long have you known about this?" Gibbs asked.

"About 4 hours," Tony shrugged. "Bishop found it initially by a fluke, which in itself was a…"

"What did she do with this fluke?" Gibbs questioned.

There was something firm and displeased in his voice that let Tony know it was wisest to take a step backward, particularly as Gibbs began rising out of his chair.

"She just called around and found out the file was from 1987 at Alameda, but it's lost now," he replied.

"That's where she dropped it?" Gibbs asked.

Tony nodded still wary and hoping they could brainstorm a bit about the file because Tony's head was swimming with possibilities and none of them were making sense.

"And in the hours after she dropped it, you kept working on it?" Gibbs continued. Tony nodded then blinked as the explosion roared at him for the admission. "You thought that was the best use of your time when we're investigating multiple murders and the attempted murder of a member of our team? What the hell were you thinking?! What does a nearly 30-year-old case have to do with two Afghani nationals killing Marines and nearly killing one of my agents?"

Tony opened his mouth to argue his point but found he didn't have one. He ducked his head, averting his eyes, in the closest thing to an apology Gibbs would accept. Spending time on the missing file was foolish, but telling Gibbs about it before they had made substantial progress on the actual case was a probie mistake. Tony hadn't made one of those in 16 years and felt ashamed for doing so now.

"Won't happen again," Tony said as he returned to his desk and tucked in intent on finishing the report he was working on before midnight.

Gibbs glared at him for several more seconds before turning his sharp gaze to McGee's desk. His own enigmatic thoughts, as always, were unreadable. He shook his head as he looked with a slightly more conciliatory gaze at his senior field agent again. He sighed.

"Mike never mentioned to me he knew McGee," Gibbs said. "He caught a lot of cases in his career. You said it was a 1986 case? That's before my time. If he interviewed McGee for anything, it might not have been anything that made an impression on him. Tim was a kid at the time. Could be he didn't remember him."

Of course, Gibbs thought, that didn't mean McGee didn't recall Franks. But the younger agent never let on he knew Franks either.

"Right," Tony nodded. "It's not relevant to this case, I'm sure. Just seemed odd, McGee and Franks having a connection and neither ever mentioning it." Tony then smirked and chuckled drawing a questioning gaze from Gibbs. "Just picturing 8-year-old McGee being questioned by Franks. Might be what made him need therapy as a child. Guess it wasn't too traumatizing seeing as he always wanted to be an NCIS agent."

Gibbs considered the possibility then nodded. Mike could be particularly brusque, but he did not generally scare children, not unless that was his intention. Gibbs had seen the man sit with a young girl who was the victim of incest and have her tell him what happened when no one medical and psychological experts had been able to get her to do anything other than crouch in a fetal position and shake her head no. The man had skills so few people understood.

"Boss, I…," Tony began, feeling the need to explain (which was completely different from apologizing). "I know jumping to conclusions is bad investigating. And no, this file has nothing to do with what happened to McGee last week, but he never mentioned anything about Franks or being involved in an investigation. His father seemed like a prize SOB from what everyone, McGee included. I just started wondering, that's all. Subject IDs are for witnesses and victims. Hiding the case file if McGee was a witness makes no sense, and there's no doubt this case file was made lost—at least the way I see it."

"What are you getting at?" Gibbs asked although he thought he knew from the bend in the conversation.

"If he wasn't a witness, then he was a victim," Tony said laying out his suspicion. "John McGee was a rising star in the blue water navy. From what I've deduced, he wasn't anyone's idea of Father of the Year. We were on a case once and found some skin mags in this kid's room and I teased him about whether his parents ever found something like that in his room. I joked that his father would have given him a tap on the old mellon, like your wake up calls if he did. Know what he said? Something about his father hitting harder than that and not hitting in the back of the head. He answered me without thinking, like confessing something by accident, Boss. Later, I joked with him about imagining these kids on base growing up with a father like Bull Meechum, from _The Great Santini_ , you know the spectacular military man who was also a demanding and abusive father. Tim said he didn't need to imagine it because he'd lived it. I let it slide as just an off-handed comment, but now…"

His words and implied accusation hung on the air. For Tony, it made sense. A child abuse investigation for someone high up in the ranks would be thrown to a seasoned investigator like Franks. Someone with John McGee's credentials and backing could, in theory, make such an investigation disappear. Whether Franks was complicit in doing so was a question they might never answer.

Gibbs considered the suspicion. He had sat across the table from Admiral McGee. He learned a lot about the man in those few minutes. What he learned was that the Admiral was a pompous ass. He was a self-important and politically savvy maneuverer. He was a success in nearly everything he ever attempted, except being a family man. He was not afraid of much, but he lived with haunting regrets. Despite his larger than life ego and the scores of people who would bow down to him and defer to him, he was not confident or secure enough to look his son in the eye and apologize or tell him that he was wrong in how he had put his only son last on his long list of priorities. The man didn't know his son and had made no attempt to know him, possibly out of intimidation that he might have to admit made a colossal mistake in always putting the Navy first.

"John McGee wasted most of his chances to be a good father," Gibbs said. "He devoted his life to his career instead. I don't doubt he disciplined his kids, but I don't think he ever physically hurt them, not like that. He just neglected them. Whatever that NIS file contains, it's not child abuse."

Tony nodded, accepting the assessment. He knew Gibbs was not impressed with the admiral, but if he had suspected something more than jackass in his character, he would say so.

"So McGee either saw something or knew something," Tony nodded, feeling a bit better now that he was able to justify not ranking his partner as a child victim of any sort. It was hard enough to look at him referred to in the case reports as the subject of a shooting. "Guess I'll just have to ask him when… you know… whenever."

Gibbs nodded and fell silent again. It had not passed his notice that Tony made no request to see McGee when he was at the hospital just outside the patient's door. Gibbs let it slide for now. Tony had buried partners before and did not take having one dangled precariously close to the grave lightly. Gibbs would give him some room to get his head straight about this latest partner debacle.

"You finished with the preliminary background on everyone mentioned in Burley's report?" Gibbs asked, settling back into the case.

Tony blinked then shook himself to focus on the case again.

"Almost," he replied. "Ellie kind of took my directive of 'everyone' a bit overboard. I know she had some time on her hands while waiting for the Simocorp guy, but this is… Huh."

Gibbs' perked up his ears and turned his head toward his agent's scoff. He waited patiently and was rewarded.

"I'm not one to believe in the whole guardian angel thing, but if there was such a thing, McGee's got one," Tony shook his head as he closed the report and emailed it to Gibbs. "The report went beyond just the people Burley listed. Ellie went to town on anyone who had contact with McGee even after the attack. She's got basic details on which corpsmen loaded him on the chopper, which nurse was in-charge of the IVs and so on."

Gibbs nodded. She was thorough, which was partly why he gave her such high marks on her half-year evaluation. Of course, that same over attention to detail could sometimes be problematic. As Franks once taught Gibbs: If you spend all you time looking at the mice, the elephants can get in.

"How does that get you to a guardian angel?" Gibbs wondered.

"Well, it got me to Westlake," Tony said as he shut down his computer and grabbed his bag and keys to leave for the night. He started toward the elevator as he finished his explanation. "Guess that mystery is solved. Night, Boss."

Gibbs watched him depart then opened the attachment on the email. It took several scrolls down the page until he located the name Westlake. Yes, McGee and Abby had both told him several times how he could search a document for a specific name, but that didn't mean he would use the knowledge. He flicked his eyes briefly toward the desk of the absent agent. It was a habit. Whenever Gibbs used the clicky, rolling thingy on his mouse, it usually irritated his tech savvy agent and would inevitably draw a cautious "Anything I can help with, Boss?" inquiry from him.

The silence from the vacant desk just reinforced the hole in the team for Gibbs.

Rather than dwell on that, Gibbs turned his eyes to the page on the screen. What he saw prompted him to lift the phone and dial the author of the report.

"Gibbs?" Bishop said sounding groggy as she answered.

"Tomorrow, first thing, you have one name and only one name on your radar," he said.

"I know," she said. "Bradley Kimmel. Director Vance wouldn't let me go to his office today, but I was thinking…"

"Leave the Simocorp guy to Burley," Gibbs directed. "You're on Porter."

"Who?" she asked.

"Admiral Paul Porter," Gibbs said.

"The doctor's ex-husband?" she asked with confusion. "Why?"

"That's what you're going to tell me," Gibbs said shelving Vance's directive to tread lightly in this vein of the investigation. "His bio isn't in the write up."

"That's because I didn't include him," Bishop replied. "I only did basic background on everyone at Foxtrot Camp that I could confirm McGee spoke with about Stan's security investigation. Porter wasn't there. In fact, the only time any sailor shows up in my report is for those who treated McGee after he was medevacked to the carrier. I only included them because… Well, frankly, I had to babysit my phone in case Kimmel called back so I just looked into the chain of people who took care of Tim. Knowing him, when he gets better, he'll want to thank them. The list will help him know who they all are. It was just odd that Porter happens to be the ex-husband of…"

"Of the woman who is McGee's doctor," Gibbs finished her sentence. "She lied to me."

"Who?" Bishop asked.

"Westlake," he said. "Find out why."

"Gibbs, you're running on fumes," Bishop said. "This is called grasping at straws. I get it if you're mad at me for wasting time on the bios of everyone who got near McGee with a syringe or a pressure bandage, but …."

Gibbs pulled off his glasses as his jaw set firmly in suspicion as several of his rules blazed in his mind.

"You're on Porter," he cut her off. "Tomorrow, get me everything you can."

Before she could question why, the line clicked dead signaling he had hung up.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** It's been a long week, friends, but I made sure I had something for you as the weekend begins.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Morning arrived early for Bishop. Her night had not been restful. She spent most of it staring at the ceiling of her bedroom, wondering what she missed that made Admiral Paul Porter someone of such interest in a case where he appeared to be simply an extra in the background. She fretted through the dark hours, running every detail she knew over and over in her mind, trying to find the thing that made him go from set dressing to suspect in Gibbs' mind.

By the time she charged into the office that morning, she was certain there was no single statement or clue to help her make that leap. What propelled the admiral into the spotlight was the thing about her boss she did not understand and did not fully agree with: his gut.

"I know that look," Burley said from his station at McGee's desk. "Boss chewed you out last night?"

"Not exactly," she scowled. "He thinks I missed something. I didn't."

"Did he say you missed something?" Burley asked.

"Again, not exactly," she replied. "He wants more information on Admiral Porter. He didn't say why. I gave him what I had on Porter based on his involvement in the case, which is nearly none. Okay, there's the information that he was married about 25 years ago to Dr. Susan Westlake, who is McGee's doctor right now."

Burley cocked and eyebrow at that detail and leaned back in his chair stroking his chin as he considered it.

"You didn't find that suspicious, Ellie?" Burley wondered.

"It isn't a coincidence when you look at the time line in a linear fashion," Bishop argued. "Porter was on a ship that took on casualties. He heard the name of one of them and knew that patient's mother. He also knew a specialist who could help him survive. He makes two phone calls then bows out of the picture. I'm not seeing signs of villainy."

Burley nodded. It was one way to interpret the information—one he might have subscribed to himself if not for a few minor details, he explained to Bishop.

"He pulled McGee out of Afghanistan the night before the attack," Burley told her and received a surprised look. "I know things got crazy here in the last few days. I guess we didn't communicate all the details. It can get that way when you're close to an investigation."

Bishop nodded, taking the half apology and deciding not to get any angrier about it. She doubted anyone in the squad had overtly attempted to keep details from her. True, there were moments in the first hours of the DC investigation where information was withheld, but she saw no signs of it being done strategically any longer.

"Why did an admiral on a ship pull an agent out of Afghanistan?" she asked as Burley nodded encouragingly. "Tim wasn't the lead on the case—you were. I know Porter knows McGee's mother somehow—probably because of his father. So what? Plenty of people know my parents. I can't imagine any of them wasting thousands of dollars of taxpayer money to fly me hundreds of miles just to ask how my mom was doing."

Burley crossed the room as he nodded. He perched on the edge of Bishop's desk with pensive expression.

"Exactly," he replied. "Tim resisted going. He actually said he'd rather stay in Hilman Province than have dinner with Porter. I've spent a lot of time in nasty spots, and I'd never make that choice. Initially, Tim declined the offer citing the investigation being time sensitive. I don't know what happened from there, but he got a message from Director Vance that he was to be on that chopper to report to the Truman."

Bishop's lips puckered into a knot as she added those details to her understanding of the case. Then she shook her head. It still didn't add up to anything worth hitting the radar. Admirals were kings of the fleet. They simply didn't like being defied.

"I'm still not seeing involvement or conspiracy with an attack that happened 24 hours later," she said. "Unless you have a reason to believe Porter told Tim to be in the Comm Center at 6 a.m."

"It's a stretch and grandiose, over the top theatrics if he did," Burley said as he spied her renewed look of confusion. "The whole crime, the active shooting part anyway, was caught on video with Gibbs and Director Vance watching. What? You didn't know that either?"

She shook her head and glared at him. With all the evidence flooding into the office and the vast array of tasks being doled out, it was not surprising she wasn't aware of ever stitch of evidence. Again, something as vital as seeing the crime being committed seemed rather a large thing to miss.

"Gibbs hasn't been here for a real briefing yet, and we're still in the gathering stages," Burley assured her, letting her know this was not a conscious effort to keep anyone in the dark. "Tony's been in limbo since Gibbs returned so he's not exactly running the investigation now. Usually, the cases aren't stretched across the globe like this, and we're still gathering initial evidence. Plus, there's that cloud hanging over everything. Your team is a man down. Hell, I might argue you're two men down."

She looked at him quizzically. She understand what he meant when he said one man. Obviously, not having McGee working his keyboard magic was slowing things down. He was also more than just someone with helpful queries and macros at his fingertips. They had a rhythm and pattern in the team. He played his part with analysis and questions; losing anyone of them in that role didn't help the machine run smoothly.

What perplexed her was the suggestion that someone else was missing as well.

"Your team is playing hurt, Ellie," Burley said. "Tony's a great investigator and good leader, but one of his good friends is in critical condition, a friend who is also his sidekick and sounding board when doing his job. He's not at 100 percent, no matter how much he tries to cover it up. Then there's Gibbs. These guys are like his kids, Ellie. You're becoming family to him, too, but remember that he's been raising them for a decade and one of them is hurt. You hurt Gibbs' family, you hurt him. It's that simple. He's not hitting on all cylinders right now. His head is telling him one thing and his gut something else. I've seen a case take a bite out of him, but that usually happens after we've been on it for a while. This one chomped down right at the beginning. He's playing catch up on the investigator side the last few days as he tries to get a handle on all of this."

She nodded, seeing the logic in the assessment.

"So when he called you last night to put you onto Porter, take it as a compliment not a scolding," Burley continued. "He knows he and Tony need to get their bearings. You're the one with the clear head. I got a message that he wants me to track down our Simocorp guy today. I'm on it. I know you had lead on that yesterday, but the boss wants you on something else today. He's got his reasons. Now, I know you're more about hard proof, but I'm a believer in history. The record speaks for itself: You can trust Gibbs' gut."

Bishop sighed as she chewed her lip while Burley made his way back to his seat. Before he sat down again, he heard her on the phone with a records clerk in the Pentagon.

"Petty Officer Blake, hi, it's Agent Bishop again," she said in a calculated tone. "I have an odd request for you that I need to keep on the down low…. Yeah, I need everything you can find on Admiral Paul Porter, start with his high school transcripts and everything the Pentagon archives have after that."

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _NCIS Conference Room_**

The team gathered around the table with files in hand. Vance sat at the head of the table while Gibbs lingered by the windows looking out into the Navy Yard. Weak sunrays tried in vain to burn their way through the thick cloud cover. Humidity and pollution reduced visibility so it was difficult to see more than a few miles before things became too hazy to discern properly.

"Is there a reason we're doing this up here and not in the squad room?" Bishop asked.

"Yes," Vance said crisply. "Because I said brief me in the conference room."

"We've been working on the case openly down there," Gibbs noted as he sipped his coffee. "We didn't need a SCIF room to compile it."

When the call came to give the director a briefing in the conference room, Gibbs immediately became wary. The room was more than a meeting space. It was one of three Sensitive Compartmented Information Facilities (SCIF rooms) in the building. The other two were Vance's office and MTAC. While MTAC was constantly in use for a variety of other things, the director's office was perfectly suitable for an early case briefing. Bringing the team to the conference room felt like a ploy—an attempt to make it seem like a regular briefing but the additional upgrades to the room made Gibbs question the choice of location and motivation behind it.

"What I have to say is not for other ears," Vance replied.

"Your office isn't a community space," Gibbs offered. "Seems like you wanted this to seem like it wasn't high profile, but you put in it here so that it could be secret."

Vance clenched a toothpick in his jaw. He and Gibbs had come far in their relationship and trust levels, but there were moments when the old friction and raw spots still flared. Vance's face gave none of this away but he did keep strict silence until the agent stopped giving him his back before speaking again. Once Gibbs turned to look at him, the director unlocked his jaw.

"There are a lot of powerful players on the board right now," he said diplomatically. "We all have roles to play."

"Nah," Gibbs shook his head. "My team just has case to solve. Let Senator Whoever and Congresswoman Whatshername waste your time or Sec Nav's with their games. What we're looking for are answers."

"So am I," Vance said firmly as he glared at Gibbs. "Agent Burley, Simocorp. Talk."

Burley cleared his throat and launched into his update. Bradley Kimmel was on his way to NCIS curtesy of a warrant; how precisely Gibbs got it overnight. He suspected there was a FISA warrant somewhere in the background, but there wasn't time to pursue those details just yet.

"Mr. Kimmel has a few things to answer for," Burley explained. "He was apparently nearly out the door at Simocorp—some sort of falling out with the CEO, who happens to be his ex-father-in-law. He got nothing in the divorce, not even visitation of his kids, but somehow kept his job; he's filed for bankruptcy, but we found an offshore account in his five-year-old daughter's name that recently received a series of deposits in the amount of eight million dollars. We're still tracing who made those deposits. Abby might be able to help with that. She got in a little late this morning, but she's working on it."

"I can help her now that I've finished with Porter," Bishop offered and drew the pointed and questioning stare of Vance.

"I'm guessing you mean Admiral Porter," the director said then looked at Gibbs. "I thought we agreed to tread lightly until we had evidence that there was a reason to tread at all."

Bishop looked at Gibbs for a signal and got just a slight jerk of the chin. She nodded, taking the order to proceed. She took a deep breath before doing so as Gibbs had not had the time to hear what she learned before they were called to this meeting.

"There appears to be no reason to tread at all," she said as she chanced a glance at her supervisor. "Admiral Porter appears to be exactly what he appears to be. He was in the Arabian Sea on the Truman at the time of the attack. He summoned Agent McGee to the ship prior to the attack for what appears to be a social visit. The admiral is friends with the McGee family and has been since the 1980s when he and Admiral McGee served together on the Enterprise. Upon learning that Agent McGee was in need of expert medical attention, he used his connections and got his first wife to take Agent McGee as a patient at Johns Hopkins, where he is listed in critical but stable condition as of 40 minutes ago when I spoke to his grandmother. He is not conscious or lucid enough to give a statement yet; when he is, I suspect he will tell us precisely what I have noted so far: Admiral Porter is not a person of interest in this investigation."

Vance grunted his approval as he turned his eyes to Tony, who was eyeing Bishop with a concerned but guarded expression. After several moments of silence, he ran down the timeline of events as the team knew them.

"Also, the cyber gremlins in the basement across the street report no joy on the laptop," Tony said. "They can't crack the encryption and no one seems to be able to figure out how to access that secret vault thing in the hard drive."

"It must need a peripheral device," Vance asserted. "Have them go through everything confiscated at the scene and everything taken from the Simocorp employees at the camp. Someone there has a key for this lock."

"Got it," Tony mused as he made a note on the pad in front of him. "Needed one key master; report to the gate keeper."

He looked up to see three sets of flat, confused and disbelieving eyes.

"It's from a movie," he chuckled uncomfortably as his voice grew quieter then trailed off. "Ghostbusters, the original. You know with the two…. McGee would have gotten it."

Vance pushed away from the table as he exhaled forcefully. He wheeled around to give them all a look of frustration.

"So what I'm hearing is that after a week we don't know much more than we did the night Gibbs and I watched this happen," he seethed.

"That's not what I heard," Gibbs contradicted him.

"I heard a lot about a laptop that may as well be a paperweight—and if we can't show it is more than that soon, a District Court Judge is going to make us hand it back over," Vance growled as he moved closer to Gibbs. "I also heard a lot about a flag officer who has absolutely nothing to do with this case, but somehow he took up a lot of time and effort so far. Care to explain that to me?"

"We go where the case takes us, Director," Gibbs said firmly.

"No, they go where your gut orders them," Vance said. "I've given you some leeway on this one, Gibbs. I know this hit close to home. McGee's an important part of this agency, but you need to get your head on straight and find me some real answers before I get told what those answers will be."

Gibbs lowered his voice as he locked eyes with Vance.

"Meaning?" he asked.

"I don't need to tell you that Simocorp is part of a large defense contractor network that carries a big stick here in DC," Vance said. "That stick is taking a swing at some high political piñatas right now. SecNav is on my phone hourly, Gibbs. She hasn't done it yet, but it's only a matter of time before the call comes in and we lose control of this investigation. If that happens, it's game over. I get orders, and I have to follow them to the letter. You need to do the same. I want a report on my desk by 3 that shows me progress on the security breech and doesn't mention naval officers who weren't in Hilman Province when the shooting started. Are we clear?"

They subtle play between their eyes went unnoticed by the team but not Gibbs, who gave a microscopic nod.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Johns Hopkins_**

 _The room was oddly dim, as if all the lights were on the verge of burning out or the power had been cut by 80 percent. The floor was gray; the walls a shade lighter so that the convergence of the two was barely noticeable. There was only one chair, and it faced away from him. A man sat in it, ramrod straight back, but facing the wall._

 _McGee cleared his throat but got no reaction from the man. Curious and unsure of what he was there to do, he walked toward him with a growing sense of familiarity with each step. By the time he walked to the front of the chair, he was not surprised to see the face that greeted him._

 _"You're not supposed to be here," John McGee said firmly._

 _"Where exactly are we, sir?" McGee asked looking at the barren room._

 _"Why are you here, Tim?" the Admiral asked._

 _"I don't even know where here is," McGee answered. "I don't remember getting here. I just found myself over there and saw you. What are you doing here?"_

 _"Your sister is upset, and it's your fault," the Admiral said. "How many times have I told you that when I am away, you're the man of the house. You need to be on your best behavior and do everything you can to help your mother—that includes looking after Sarah. You have responsibilities, son. You know that I expect more from you when I'm not there."_

 _"You were never there," McGee objected. "How would you know what I did?"_

 _The Admiral's sharp gaze pierced McGee and caused him to lower his chin and look at the misty floor. Dozens of questions churned in his mind, but he could not grab hold of any one of them long enough to put them into words. He his mind was cloudy and there was an odd fluttering feeling in his chest similar to how he felt anytime the Admiral punished him for failing to live up to his expectations._

 _"Don't hang your head like some sulking school kid," the Admiral said gruffly. "You're supposed to be tougher than that. Isn't that what you're always telling me?"_

 _McGee lifted his eyes to look at the man defiantly. The uneasy feeling in his chest began to radiate outward and send waves of jitters into his limbs._

 _"No, its not," McGee shook his head. "I never tell you that. What would be the point? You never listen to me. No, that's what Penny and Mom told you—and you never listen to them either. Or, you didn't, not for a long time. Something isn't right here. I'm missing something."_

 _The Admiral scoffed and looked away in disgust._

 _"So you're gonna stand behind a couple women to protect you?" the Admiral sneered. "They didn't protect you, Tim. No one did. I'll give you this, you tried to save yourself, but you failed. Now, you're here. Don't make this situation worse. You get your act together and finish what you started."_

 _"Finish what I started?" McGee scoffed angrily. "What did I start? I don't understand. How are you even here? You're…"_

 _McGee paused and looked more carefully at the man. The Admiral was in his dress uniform, the acres of ribbons on his chest perfectly aligned, the buttons shined to a high gloss. His face was full and his eyes were clear. His voice was as commanding and strong as it was condescending and intimidating._

 _"I haven't seen you like this for a long time," McGee said as the aches rolling through his body intensified. "Dad, where have you been?"_

 _"Where I always am," the Admiral replied as he stood up to his full height and placed his pristine saucer hat on his head. "Where I am supposed to be. Where are you, Tim? What are you supposed to be doing?"_

 _"I don't know," McGee admitted as fear crept into his voice and the room grew darker while the pain pressed down on him. "There was a case, I think. I was supposed to help solve a case."_

 _"Did you?" the Admiral asked._

 _"I don't know," McGee said. "I don't remember."_

 _"Figure it out," he snapped. "You won't get anywhere if you just give up now. Look at yourself. Cowering like some kid scared of the dark."_

 _"It is dark," McGee winced. "Dad, why is it so dark?"_

 _"Open your eyes," he ordered._

"Tim, open your eyes," Westlake commanded as her face loomed over him in the too bright room.

Sounds flooded his ears and drown his thoughts while light assaulted his eyes. A white hot pain tore through him that left him gasping shallowly for breath that he regretted with each inhalation.

"That's right," Westlake encouraged. "That's following orders. Now, blink twice for me. Excellent, you can hear me and understand me." She then swiped a penlight across his eyes and got both a fair pupil reaction as well as a jerk of his head away from the brightness. "Bilateral contractions are sufficiently reactive. Good. Welcome back from No Man's Land, Tim. We've changed some of your medications. The high-test ones you were on were keeping you too sedated and were lowering your respiration rate. Good news: You'll be more alert when you are awake. Bad news: You're probably going to start feeling some more pain."

"Some?" McGee croaked as the hot daggers lancing through him intensified.

"Sarcasm is good," Westlake commented as she murmured something to someone just out of his narrowing field of vision. "We've pulled your intercostal nerve block—you know what one of those is?"

"Direct inject," he said in a breathless way.

"That's right," Westlake smiled. "Have I told you lately how much I enjoy a patient who speaks my language? Oh, why couldn't I have met a guy like you when I was younger?"

"Hurts," McGee said weakly.

"I know," she said compassionately. "The intensity of that pain will fade. It will be slow, but it will happen. Trust me, if we don't take you off the opioids, you're at a greater risk for complications including pneumonia. As a guy who has been recently up-close and personal with a rib spreader, you want no part of that."

McGee felt stabbing pains with each inhale and slicing pains with each exhale.

"Hang in there, sweetheart," Penny's voice sounded somewhere to his left. "Give the new medication a little more time to kick in."

"Penny," he gasped moving is eyes wildly in an attempt to find her. "Dad?"

She locked eyes with Westlake who nodded once then turned her attention to her assistant's tablet to make additional annotations. Penny sighed and moved closer so he could see her.

"Timothy, I am here, but your father isn't," she told him. "Sweetheart, he died last Christmas."

"I know," McGee panted. "But he was here. Talked to him. Saw him."

"Sweetheart, you were dreaming," Penny said, stroking his arm in an attempt to comfort him. "The medication you were getting was too strong; it was messing with your head, your heart and your lungs. Hey, for all I know it ruffied your appendix, too. So, your mom and I agreed to Dr. Westlake's new Just Say No policy on opioids for you. That's right. From now on, it's strictly narcotics for you, young man—and a goodly amount, too."

She winked at him, hoping her jab at humor would convey some confidence from her or at strip a layer of worry away. Her grandson, they had come to realize, was highly perceptive and in tune with the atmosphere of the room. If people were upset, he reacted with a quickened heart rate. If they were tense, the same thing happened to his respirations. When his sister had recently entered the room and fallen to pieces despite promising she wouldn't, McGee did not react at all. Penny immediately summoned the medical cavalry, who determined the best painkillers were having too deep an impact. While his body was essentially not noticing any pain, the drug was also depressing his base instincts for thriving. His oxygen levels were low and his heart was sluggish. The only course of action was to let the pain be felt at a greater, conscious level and attempt to make McGee as comfortable as possible on lesser medications.

While Penny did not relish the idea of her grandson suffering in a more visible way, she understood the necessity. Her own heart ached for him as the latest chapter in this nearly week-old ordeal unfolded; however, she reminded herself to keep all of that off her face and out of her voice when she was in his room.

"I'll bet you and your team have busted a few dealers who would love to get a hold of the stash they're going to start feeding you, kido," she smirked.

 _Stash. Dealers. Team._ The words hit McGee as strongly as the bolts of pain torturing him in that instant. _Case_ , his mind screamed at him.

"The case," McGee huffed as the world began to grow soft around the edges and his head began to spin. "Dad said… I need to… finish it."

"You don't need to worry about any case, Timothy," she assured him, ignoring the reference to his father. "You're in luck. Gibbs is going through a celebrated old-softy period right now and said you can have the rest of the week off. Better listen to old doc Westlake here and get better quickly. I'm not sure we can get Special Agent Sunshine to be so lenient on you next week."

McGee tried to focus on her words but they blurred and slurred together as everything seemed to slow down. His lids grew heavy again, his lips felt rubbery and his tongue sluggish.

"Need to tell him," McGee muttered. "'bout the case."

"Honey, it was a dream," Penny said firmly. "Your father passed away."

"Not the Admiral," McGee mumbled as he ran out of steam and slipped into a drug induced sleep again. "Gibbs."

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Interrogation Room_**

When Bradley Kimmel, the VP in charge of cyber security at Simocorp, had first entered the room an hour earlier, both Tony and Burley were impressed. They wondered how the man, despite his 5'10" stature and body builder physique, was able to maneuver under such a large ego. His head, they both joked, must have weight more than the man could bench press, which was likely a considerable amount.

After an hour of tag team questioning and accusing, he broke. Like a dam with a million cubic feet of water behind it, everything came gushing through the hole. He was on the verge of being ousted from his company—a final spot of revenge from his ex-father-in-law aimed at ruining him. He was starting his own security firm on the side—one that would attempt to strip away Simocorp's clients and equipment deals by revealing the weaknesses in the Simocorp infrastructure. Kimmel had been collecting the bones of the many skeletons in the company's closet since he was forced to file for bankruptcy. The final step in his masterful plan was to reveal a gaping hole in the company's internal vetting of foreign nationals cleared to enter US military bases abroad.

What he wasn't confessing to was murder, attempted murder or treason.

"Stan, I don't think he gets what we're saying here," Tony chuckled from his seat across from Kimmel to Burley, who stood behind Kimmel and rested his hands on the man's chair.

"I think you're right, Tony," Burley agreed. "You know what his problem is?"

"He doesn't know everything we know?" Tony guessed with a wide grin.

Burley snapped his fingers and pointed triumphantly at Tony.

"Got it in one," Burley said. "I forgot how good you are at this. Brad, do you have any idea how good this guy is? I mean, he's like a magician."

"Mind reader, actually," Tony puffed out his chest. "Like, right now, our buddy Brad here is thinking that if he cops to all his little misdeeds it's going to build trust with us so when he shovels his weeping story about not knowing anyone would get hurt that we'll believe him. Am I right, Brad?"

"I didn't think anyone would get hurt!" Kimmel shouted as tears rolled down his face. "I never paid them to hurt anyone. There was never any discussion about a physical incursion of the base. Honest! I just wanted to show that the computer program Simocorp uses is flawed and dangerous. I knew it was for two years, but no one at the company would listen to me. I tried telling the Defense Department and no one there would listen either because my former father-in-law helps fund the re-election campaigns of half a dozen senators and congressmen!"

Tony blinked comically. He already knew this information—the team in the cyber unit might still be struggling to crack the enigmatic laptop, but they had peeled through some of the code in it for running and maintaining background checks of the people on Simocorp's overseas personnel. The NCIS team found flaws that made it seem a miracle that something deadly hadn't happened sooner.

"Wait, so you're telling me that you're a whistleblower?" Tony gaped. "Stan, we're wrong. This guy, he's a hero."

"A hero?" Burley questioned. "Then why did he keep it a secret?"

"Good question," Tony nodded as he left his seat to perch on the table beside the weeping Kimmel. "Why keep it a secret, Brad? Are you humble? Is that it? Saintly, perhaps?"

"They've bought you, too," Kimmel scoffed. "The defense lobby owns your sorry asses, whether you know it or not. You're running me through, tagging me with a firefight on the other side of the world, but I've never even been there. I didn't do anything wrong. I found a problem. No one wanted it fixed so I decided I would fix my way. I planned to set myself up in a new company that specialized in fixing what was broken at Simocorp. The military gets the added security measures they need and I get of debt in the process, where's the crime in that?"

Tony chuckled as Burley joined him while they closed ranks on the man.

"Well, the crimes are murder and treason," Tony reminded him with a grin. "See, that's what happens when you sell out the security of your nation, in this case a Marine base, and get a bunch of people shot and killed—that 8 million you banked will just be a footnote to make the jury really hate you after they return their guilty verdict. Of course, once they hear you got the guys who are on the front line there shot to bits like a pile of jerky, they're going to want to kill you themselves."

Kimmel had reached his breaking point. He shot out of his chair, knocking Burley backward a few steps as he leaned into Tony and screamed, spraying him with spittle.

"Shove your little grandstanding theatrics," he screamed. "Look, I admit it. I don't give a damn about those guys who got shot any more than you do. Now, either you start talking about a deal or I want a la—…"

Kimmel was never able to finish his sentence because Tony's arm was pressed against his windpipe and pinning him to the wall. He stood, nose-to-nose with Kimmel, with a reddened face and a clenched jaw while the man trembled before him.

"Oh, I believe that you don't care about them," Tony said darkly. "But I'm not like you."

Burley struggled to his feet and held back for a moment, allowing Tony his space. Kimmel rasped and struggled slightly under the pressure from Tony's hand.

"See, one of the people you hurt over there is my partner," Tony said. "If he dies, I'm making it my personal quest to see that you die. Now, I can't have you tried in a military court, but I am a Federal Officer so this is Federal jurisdiction. I noticed that you have an office in Arlington. That's in Virginia, so that's where I'm filing the charges. They have the death penalty. Unfortunately, they only have a choice between lethal injection and electrocution. See, I would prefer a firing squad, but one that can't quite get the job done on the first try, you know, because I want you to suffer what my friend is suffering right now."

His voice took on a quiet yet cold bend that made Burley nervous. He agreed with Kimmel on one point: the role playing was over.

"Tony," Burley said stepping closer. "That's enough."

"I didn't shoot anyone," Kimmel protested with a gasp.

"Tell us who brokered the deal with the shooters," Tony insisted. "Trust me, Bradley. You want to tell me now, or you're gonna have to meet the guy hanging out behind that mirror. He's my boss. He taught me a lot of ways to break a suspect, and I haven't even started to dip into his bag of tricks yet."

The veins on Kimmel's forehead stood out as his face went a shade deeper as Burley stepped closer and again asked Tony to step backward.

He did not.

"No shooters," Kimmel insisted. "Never was a plan to shoot… Tipline only."

Burley put his hands on Tony's shoulders and nudged him to step away. Tony released Kimmel, who sunk to the floor. Burley squatted beside the suspect, checking on his condition, as Tony stared down at the man harshly.

"What tipline?" Burley asked, using his momentary edge as the guy not trying to throttle the supsect. "What are you talking about?"

"That was my plan," the man heaved as he massaged his throat. Tony rolled his eyes at the over acting. There wouldn't even be a mark on the guy in a few minutes. "I ratted them out."

"Who?" Tony barked. "Who did you rat out?"

"Simocorp," Kimmel gagged. "To you. I'm the one who called NCIS and told you to look for the breech."

Burley and Tony offered each other questioning looks as they feared their strongest thread to unraveling the mystery of the shooting had just snapped.

 **oOoOoOo**

Bishop leaned on the wall outside MTAC as she waited for Gibbs to exit. He had been inside conferencing with someone, she did not know who, for the better part of an hour. In that time, Tony had broken their best suspect only to find out that while he was guilty of profiting from holes in a security measure, he likely was not the brains behind the attack on the camp.

She felt her time and efforts would be better spent on trying to find that brain rather than digging into a naval officer who she felt had been cleared of any involvement; however, she had not received permission from Gibbs to do that yet. As he exited the secure room, she laid out her intentions for him only to be rebuffed.

"Nope," he shook his head as he started down the stairs with her in tow. "I want you to keep digging on Porter."

"Why?" Bishop stopped on the stairs. She halted on the landing before the final stretch to the floor. "Did you listen to what I said to the Director earlier?"

"Yeah," Gibbs nodded as he continued down the steps. "Good job. Now go deeper."

"Deeper?" she blinked and shook her head. "The Director just told us to drop the Porter inquiry and focus on Simocorp."

"That's not what he said," Gibbs shook his head as he returned the three steps to get to her. He leaned in and spoke quietly. "He said to give him a report that shows progress on the Simocorp angle and to leave out anything involving Porter."

Bishop scoffed and thought back to Burley's assessment that Gibbs' normally finely honed instincts were off-kilter due to worry, anger and lack of sleep. She folded her arms defiantly.

"There was a security breech," she insisted. "It involved a security contractor on a base in Afghanistan. We have the guy responsible for the breech. His mess led to an attack. The attack itself is looking like someone exploited the flaw in Simocorp's security net. Therefore, the shooting and Stan's investigation are unrelated other than both originated at Foxtrot Camp, meaning they're not related at all."

"Uh huh," Gibbs nodded. "Now go find out about Porter."

"No," she shook her head. "I get it. A member of your team, a person we all care about, got hurt. You need someone to blame or punish; the actual shooters are dead, but blaming someone who was a 600 miles away in the Arabian Sea during the firefight is ludicrous and a waste of our time."

"A waste?" he repeated.

"Yes," she nodded. "You're not being logical or rational about this, Gibbs. I understand why. Tim's been on your team for a long time. It looked like you might lose him and, like with Tony, he's one of your guys. You watched the shooting happen real-time, and there was nothing you could do to help him. Now, you're fixated on something that isn't relevant. You're chasing shadows and trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. It can't be done because there is nothing there."

Gibbs looked down at her scowling expression and offered her a stern stare.

"What was the reason McGee went out to the carrier the first time?" Gibbs asked pointedly.

"To see an old friend of his family's," she recalled with a shrug.

"No," Gibbs corrected her. "Because he was ordered. Admirals may have colossal egos, but they're not going to feel slighted enough to lean on SecNav to get the director of NCIS to order an agent to accept a dinner invite."

Bishop considered that spin on the events, and it did seem to be a bit of a stretch to think ordering McGee to the carrier at such expense was simply to catch up—particularly as Burley had explained McGee himself wasn't precisely close to Porter despite the family acquaintanceship. Still, there was a bit of history to contend with, she felt, that might put weight to her initial theory.

"Admiral Porter attended Admiral McGee's funeral," Bishop reported. "The NSA had people there as did the DIA. Porter was observed speaking with McGee, his mother and his sister together and separately. From what Porter's aid told me, Admiral McGee and Admiral Porter were close friends for 30 years. Porter's a human being, Gibbs. That whole lonely at the top cliché has merit. For most of us, when you lose one of the few people who know what your life is truly like, it's hard. They knew each other for half of their lives. The guy might still be grieving. So he finds out that his best friend's son was in the area and he reached out—maybe it was for his own sake or maybe he was just checking on McGee. Either way, Porter's got an ego the size of his ship and didn't take no for an answer—he even went so far as to have Mrs. McGee pressure Tim to go before he was ordered to accept the invite. After that, the admiral steps in again to help save his friend's son's life by getting him hooked up with one of the best thoracic surgeons in the world. The fact that it's his first ex-wife is just a coincidence. None of this sounds nefarious to me. Mostly, it sounds desperate and lonely."

She held her ground and refused to look away as Gibbs snorted. He was willing to give her take on the landscape some weight, but his gut was telling him it was wrong because his gut knew something his agent did not: John McGee.

"Sounds like guilt to me," Gibbs offered. "Your theory has big problem. Admiral McGee didn't have friends. He had subordinates. There's another reason why Porter took such an interest in McGee."

"What then?" she demanded.

"You tell me," Gibbs replied. "You're the one looking for those answers."

Bishop scoffed and flapped her hands in frustration as her supervisor's entire theory was predicated on his instincts and appeared to be weaving together facts that had no apparent connection.

"Well then maybe he's having an affair with Mrs. McGee," Bishop snapped then smirked at what Tony's reaction would be to that.

However, Gibbs did not see humor so much as possibility.

"Find out," he ordered.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	11. Chapter 11

**oOoOoOo**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Dr. Rachel Cranston stepped off the elevator to the vast expanse of orange walls. The room was moderately busy for a Saturday morning. She walked with authority to the desk closest to the stairs. There she spied Tony focused on his computer screen while sporting a brooding expression.

"Since when are you the pensive one?" she asked. "Don't tell me I got that part of my profile wrong."

Tony looked up in surprise. A wary expression arced across his face before being replaced with a mask of cheerfulness.

"Dr. Kate's-Sister," he greeted the psychologist. "You applying for a job? Personnel is on the 2nd floor, but they're not open on the weekends."

"Actually, I was in the neighborhood and wanted to drop by to see my favorite team," Cranston replied.

"The Nationals?" he questioned. "Wow. Didn't picture you as a baseball fan. Well, you're obviously in the wrong place. Let me guess, you were driving from southwest on M Street and turned where all the cars were. Yeah, easy mistake to make. The ballpark is a couple streets over. Go out the main gate, hang a left, drive four blocks over then bang another left. Big stadium. Can't miss it."

She allowed him his moment of jocularity while his mind settled into the possible reasons why she was there.

"Strike one," she informed him. "You guessed the wrong team. Don't suggest the Mets next. You're already behind in the count."

"Oh, you meant us," he forced a laugh with his phony smile plastered in place. "Well, it's the weekend, Dr. Rachel, not office hours."

"You're here," she shrugged then looked at Gibbs' desk and saw a tall coffee cup sitting on the corner. "Looks like Gibbs is, too."

"Well, I'm dedicated and boss is… I'm thinking it's a curse placed on him by a genie he found in a bottle which keeps him coming back here day after day like a tense and gruff version of Groundhog Day," Tony said, maintaining his pained smile. When she did not even raise the hint of a smile, he relented and deflated. "It's been a bad week."

"I heard," she said cautiously. "I know about Tim."

"Is that why you're here?" he asked. "Of course it is. Well, he's in Baltimore, so if you're looking to work on some healing then you're in the wrong zip code."

"Actually, I saw Tim briefly last night," Cranston informed him. "That's why I am here today. I'm checking on you… and others."

"Well, we're all peachy so thanks for dropping by, Doc," Tony replied dismissively. "Good to see you, but McGee's the patient—not us. You might want to clear your schedule a bit. He'll probably need a few hours of therapy after this. He spent a lot of time alone with Gibbs in Germany and on the flight home. Just hopping a 5 hour flight to the west coast with the boss used to give him insomnia and self-doubt for weeks."

"He'll get all the help he needs, whatever that may be," Cranston said. "Right now, he's not up to talking much."

"Uh yeah," Tony nodded as he dramatically ruffled the papers littering his desk. "Got the memo on that somewhere. Now, where is it? Oh, here it is: a crime scene report. Let's see. Hmm, one bullet to the heart. I can see where that might not leave him in a real chatty mood."

Cranston folder her arms and regarded him with a frank expression.

"Does it help to do this?" she asked. "If it does, by all means, keep going. If not, then maybe we can stop this puff and ruffle bravado scene you're playing out for me. I only mentioned that I saw your partner because I wondered if you were aware of how he is doing seeing as you haven't gone to see him."

Tony scoffed as he started to reorder the many papers on his desk.

"Whining about loneliness, is he?" Tony quipped. "Little Timmy can be so sensitive when the adults have work to do and can't play with him."

Cranston sighed with resignation as she realized her visit had caught the senior agent by surprise during a vulnerable time—one he was not prepared to admit was difficult. Thus, she needed to wade through the waves of sarcasm until he remembered she was not there to judge him but to offer help—if he would accept it.

"Everyone understands how tough this is on you," she offered mildly. "You've had a lot put on your shoulders this last week, and you didn't have the time or the space to react to any of this. You're going to need to power down and let yourself deal with what's happening at some point. Tony, I know how close you two are."

Tony snorted as he hunched his shoulders defensively.

"If he's telling people: _Tony completes me_ , that's probably the drugs talking… maybe," Tony smirked. "We don't have a Brokeback Squad Room thing going."

"I think that's actually from _Jerry Maquire_ ," she corrected him with concern.

Tony blanched at his gaff, blaming the miscue on movie references on fatigue. It also didn't help that he was startled by seeing his deceased partner's head-shrinking sister standing in front of his desk with her soulful and searching eyes pointed at him early on a Saturday morning while he was still wearing his Friday clothing after not going home to sleep the night before.

"Just testing you, Doc," he assured her. "You get a pass for movie trivia in round one."

"I can't tell you how accomplished that makes me feel," she smiled accepting his lie without believing it.

She waited patiently for several long and lingering moments before Tony looked at her and sighed.

"You obviously have a question," he said. "Neither of us is a mind reader so you'll have to say the words. What's on your mind?"

"It's a point of curiosity mostly," Cranston said. "McGee has been in Baltimore since Tuesday afternoon. I've been in Florida all week and just got back late yesterday, but I've gone to see him. Granted, he was sleeping when I checked in, but I did visit. You haven't seen him at all. I'm wondering why."

Tony chuckled and kept his painted smile in place. He thought of telling her that there was work to be done; that he didn't want to invade his partner's privacy at such a vulnerable time; that he didn't want to infringe on the family at these stressful moments. But he didn't think she would buy it. He didn't even buy it entirely.

"Maybe because I'm not eager to see him," Tony admitted. "This job we do is dangerous, and we tell ourselves each day it won't happen to me. We get to the point where we believe it. No one likes being reminded that's a lie."

Cranston shook her head with confidence as she fixed him with a disbelieving gaze. She walked around to sit on the front side of his desk. Tony reclined in his chair, giving her space and attempting to affect a relaxed pose.

"You're not afraid for yourself, and you've seen worse," she reminded him. "You were with Kate when she was shot. Would seeing McGee be worse than that?"

Tony kept his face neutral. He didn't have a good or ready answer because the truth was both yes and no. Seeing Kate's head explode was possibly his worst memory. It was certainly, thus far, the worst visual memory he possessed. It was also the day with the greatest impact in his career; it was the worst day, the day against which he measured all other bad days. When things got bad, he asked himself one basic question: _On a scale of one to Kate, how bad was today?_

He had those bookends in place. He didn't need McGee giving him another one to mess up his simple but effective matrix. What Tony knew at that moment was important: McGee was alive. He could survive this wound—probably—despite no one talking about McGee leaving the hospital or what needed to happen for him to get back to the life he had before. Tony found those omissions slightly suspect; however, he snorted his blustering response.

"He's got plenty of gawkers hovering around him right now," Tony said. "You've profiled him, Doc. You really think McPrivacy would enjoy being the center of attention like this?"

"I know he would like to see you," she answered. "Did you know he asked about you?"

Tony blinked and shook his head. Cranston nodded as she elaborated.

"When he has been conscious, he's said very little," she explained. "He said to tell Gibbs thank you; he asked about his father; and he asked if you were okay. He's confused, obviously, about a lot if things right now, like how he ended up in the hospital. He was concerned that you might have been hurt when he was."

Tony looked down at his hands. That was news to him. He didn't know what to think about it. When he had been shot by that rogue Watcher Fleet alumni, Jonathan Cole, he had been hospitalized with some temporary amnesia. McGee was not someone he thought of when he first awoke in the hospital or even a few hours later when he was talking to Gibbs and then Cranston.

"Is that supposed to mean something?" he asked.

"Oh, it definitely means something," Cranston smiled easily. "I'm just not sure I should tell you. Before you make some don't-ask-don't-tell joke, I'll relieve you of the burden and assure you that's not it. I just think it is one of those things that would be better if you figured it out for yourself. I think you'll find the answer pretty obvious."

Gibbs picked that moment to cruise into the room from the back elevator. He nodded to Cranston without surprise.

"Making office calls, Doc?" he inquired.

"It's a whole new world," she said as she nodded to Tony then turned to Gibbs. "The changes to healthcare are boundless and exciting. I heard you've been challenging the notion that human beings need sleep."

"No challenge," Gibbs replied. "Got four solid hours last night."

"Wow," she remarked with a facetious tone. "That's practically a vacation for you."

Gibbs offered her a flat gaze as he took his seat.

"Glower all you like, I will be talking to you later," she vowed. "Is Abby in her lab?"

"She is," Gibbs nodded. "She's waiting for you."

Cranston nodded and made her way to the back elevator for here morning appointment with the forensic scientist. Tony watched her leave then looked to Gibbs' desk.

"Rachel was asking why I haven't gone to see McGee," he grimaced. "Apparently, my absence was getting noticed by someone."

"Yeah, by me," Gibbs said as he focused on his computer screen.

"Oh," Tony gaped. "I thought it was McGee. She said he…"

"Me and a few others," Gibbs noted firmly.

Tony nodded, feeling guilty and chastised. He also knew that there was an unspoken order in the air.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Abby's Lab_**

The evidence table held the shell of a body. The clothing, crusty with dried blood, was laid out as though there were limbs and a torso within them. The body armor—the lifesaving shell that practically failed—hung on a stand beside the table. The helmet rested atop that pole as it had no relevance in this finale dissection of the evidence from Afghanistan.

Abby had put off this final evidence analysis until last. That was partly due to it being the last bundle brought to her. Still, once it arrived, she hesitated to jump right in. It was difficult just to sign for the evidence bags containing his bloody clothing when they arrived. Now, having at least spoken to McGee, she found she could attack these last items without feeling the nausea that had plagued her initially.

Her stomach still flipped when she removed the blood infused clothing from the bag, but knowing that the wearer was alive and under the care of a specialist made it something she could fight through as long as she kept her thoughts clinical and scientific. It was difficult, but she was able to do it as long as her music was blaring loud enough to keep from paying much attention to the horrified thoughts that still race through her mind every few minutes.

The music was playing so loud that she did not realize she had company until Cranston touched her on the shoulder. Abby yelped initially, but calmed herself as she used her remote to switch off her music.

"I didn't hear the elevator," Abby apologized as she looked sheepishly at the psychiatrist. "I've been focusing."

"I think you've been avoiding as well," Cranston surmised as she looked toward the now silent speakers. "I would expect that at this point."

Abby nodded sadly but grateful the woman understood. Gibbs had mentioned that Vance asked Cranston to check on the team and that she would be stopping by this morning. Abby was actually kind of glad to see her.

"Are those Agent McGee's clothes that he was wearing during the attack?" Cranston guessed. Abby nodded solemnly. "What might you find that will help the investigation?"

Abby inhaled deeply, glad they were going to wade into this slowly and that they were starting on the firm and objective ground of science.

"It's more a question of what I don't expect but do find that tends to be the most telling," she explained as she looked with sorrowful eyes at the bloodstains. "But in this case, I found precisely what I should and nothing I shouldn't. There is no suspect trace evidence. The blood matches the vi… The blood is all his. There was nothing suspect on any of it. These represent a clean sample."

"Interesting definition," Cranston noted as she fought the question that raced through her mind: _Did Kate's clothing look anything like this?_ Abby would have processed those too if the investigation had required that level of analysis.

"Clean sample only means that there is nothing else on them except for the typical clothing fibers, dust and grit from the location and… you know… the… blood," Abby said with difficulty.

Cranston let the quiet in the room linger for a few moments before getting back to her assessment. Abby actually appeared to be in better shape than she expected. Of all the team members, she thought Abby would be the one experiencing the highest level of anxiety and denial. So far, that crown was surprisingly being worn by Tony.

"How have you been sleeping?" Cranston asked. "I understand you didn't know what happened to Agent McGee until…"

"Tim," Abby interrupted her. "We're talking about him, as the person I know right now, not the subject of my reports. Agent McGee is… I don't call him Agent anything. It's just McGee or Tim when I'm talking about him as a person, as my friend."

"Okay," Cranston nodded, finding the delineation between work and not-work a highly evolved and healthy reaction from the woman all things considered. "You were the last one on Gibbs' team to know what happened. You found out almost by accident."

Abby's jaw grew firm upon the assessment that her finely tuned laboratory processes resulted in an accidental finding of any sort, but she also understood what the therapist was attempting to state. She sighed then nodded.

"Tony kept it from me," she said tensely.

"And you're mad at him," Cranston guessed. "Tim, your friend, someone you are quite close to, was hurt, but no one told you. You had to find out from your machines. That must have been terrifying and felt like betrayal."

"I was too scare to feel betrayed," Abby replied. "At first."

The betrayal feelings came later when she was able to process what had happened and start trying to understand what might happen next. As with a lot of accidents, she thought, the worst of it was usually the aftermath.

"I see," Cranston nodded. "Have you spoken with him?"

"Timmy?" Abby asked as her eyes widened. "Yes. The night before last his grandmother arranged for me to see him for a few minutes. I wasn't supposed to talk to him, but he woke up so we talked for a few seconds. It wasn't a real conversation; he was pretty out of it, but it helped me, anyway, to hear his voice."

"It did?" she wondered with concern. "You understand that he is still in critical condition?"

Abby nodded. The sight of him, broken and bruised and wasted to a skeleton from the trauma, filled her mind when she closed her eyes, but so did the sound of his voice saying her name and talking to her. He recognized her and remembered some part of their last conversation. Whatever gaps there were in his memory that were concerning his family, she was satisfied the missing areas were not a chasm that engulfed the entire previous decade.

"He's going to be okay," Abby asserted as she reflexively grabbed her stuffed hippo to cradle him in her arms. "I know the doctor can't say that yet, and he's got a lot of healing to do, but I just believe that. He's going to be okay. He… he has to be. I wanted to say more to him, but… I mean, I did say things, but he wasn't awake to hear them by that point."

"What things?" Cranston wondered.

"Things that I learned not long ago and I need to tell him… again," Abby replied

Cranston nodded as Abby looked at her shoes and wrestled with internal thoughts and pangs of fear. Both were expected and good signs—they showed that despite her words, Abby understood and accepted the gravity of McGee's condition; however, Cranston's previous question wasn't answered.

"I see," the doctor nodded as ideas of what Abby meant filled her mind—none of them surprised the woman who had long ago profiled the two. "Well, when I asked if you had spoken to him, I was actually asking about Agent DiNozzo. Have you spoken to him since you found out what happened? Have you told him how you feel about him not disclosing all the information to you upfront?"

Abby shook her head as a guilty shade, tinged slightly with hints of lingering anger, colored her face. Her eyes remained uncertain as she looked back at Cranston for advice.

"You do work together," Cranston said. "Eventually, you will need to speak. Historically, you two have been friend of his outside the office as well."

"There isn't much outside of the office right now," Abby said with a defeated shrug. "When something like this happens, the office is pretty much all we have."

Cranston sighed. She knew that, particularly about this team. Their dysfunction would be concerning if there wasn't such internal balance and reason for it. As a group, they were able to keep everything together and pull each other back from the brink. Of course, that balance was off-kilter currently while one of their number remained in limbo.

"That would make talking to Tony and working through whatever you are feeling about being kept out of the loop even more important," Cranston said. "Only you know if the friendship can be revived, and you do still have to work closely, but if nothing else, recent event should have taught you that sometimes there isn't much time to make the choice to forgive or understand. "

"What do you mean by ' _if nothing else_ ' and ' _there isn't much time_ '?" she asked.

"Well, I was told you had an argument with McGee before he left for his overseas duty and look what happened," Cranston noted. "Life can change, sometimes badly, without any warning. We spend our lives telling ourselves such beautifully comforting lies; the biggest, most soothing, and still most dangerous of them all is: There will be time later."

Abby blinked as she felt her stomach cinch tighter in a knot as the cold, cruel truth of that observation hit her.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Johns Hopkins_**

Tony arrived late in the afternoon to the ICU. Summoning the will to ask to see McGee was harder than gaining permission. Penny was accommodating and understanding. She had little to say and appeared much older than he remembered her. She was soft-spoken and reserved—two things he definitely did not recall being part of her character. She warned him only that she could not guarantee her grandson would be awake or lucid enough to talk. She asked only that if he did wake up that Tony keep the conversation away from the shooting or anything related to work. She hoped that seeing Tony alive and well would settle her grandson's confused mind.

Tony entered the room and was struck quickly by the oppressive stillness of it. McGee was not normally a fidgety person. He often stood with his hands clasped, one over the other in front of him, as if forbidden to show any of his nervousness. Tony always figured that had something to do with having discussions with his father that were the home equivalent of standing mast. However, even in those moments, there was not a complete (he shuddered at the idea) corpse-like stillness to him. Here, in this hospital room, there was something unnatural about the immobility of the man in the bed. Tony felt a hard, dry knot cinch in his throat as sour flavors rose in his mouth upon looking at the wasted, pasty, bruised, unconscious figure in front of him.

This wasn't McGee. Not his McGee.

This was a victim.

Seeing him like this confirmed what Tony suggested to Cranston. No one wanted to be seen or remembered like this. He stood beside the bed for a long while in silence. No solid thoughts would form in his mind, and no words would form in his mouth. Tony sighed then began to speak in a soft whisper.

"Sleeping on the job, huh Probie?" he said quietly, forcing his voice to remain steady with great effort. "Actually, that's kind of helpful right now, you know, for me. If you were awake and with the program, I'd be forced to trot out some ' _I can't McQuitYou_ ' jokes or whatever came to mind so I could say what I think I'm supposed to say, or what I want… need to say, without having to actually say it."

Tony huffed and ran his hands through his hair as he drew an uneasy breath as he sat in the chair left at the bedside.

"You're not supposed to do this to me, Tim," Tony said. "I've got this whole self-image thing I've spent a lot of time carefully cultivating. Like, I'm the one who charges in without thinking and gets within a fingernail of meeting the grim reaper. After all, I'm the senior field agent and that's my job. Now, you go and do this…"

Tony paused as his voice grew thin and his expression pitying.

"Of course, you didn't charge in," Tony continued. "It just happened to you even though you were wearing body armor. You did everything right, by the book, naturally, and still… Man, it is like the universe even knows you're great for a punchline… our favorite target. Sorry. Bad choice of words. You can't fault me here. See, this shouldn't have happened. Ducky and Abby tell me it's like a miracle shot where that bullet hit you. If you simulated that whole incident again 5 million times, it would never find that same spot again—they assure me there's like science or math behind that. You had better odds of winning two national lottery jackpots than you did of getting hit like this. It should have been impossible."

He swallowed hard as his foot bounced nervously on the floor while he tried to keep his voice from cracking.

"Of course, the Titanic sunk on its maiden voyage," he scoffed as he continued. "The Berlin Wall fell. So did the Twin Towers. Hell, DiCaprio won an Oscar, which, I guess shows that impossible doesn't mean what it used to; it's like the things everyone was sure could never happen, did. In the blink of an eye."

His throat grew tight as the raw side of his emotions bubbled close to the surface.

"Which is why I gotta tell you, you've got me worried," Tony said quickly. "I never figured that between the two of us, you'd be the one who punched out in the line of duty, but given what's happened… We're a good team, you and me. Ellie, too, but let's not talk about her—she's been a little cranky this week."

He cleared his throat as his voice grew husky with the strain of keeping his composure. The patient slumbered on oblivious to the chat.

"I guess I don't need to tell you that you and me have been together for a long time," Tony continued. "After all, you're my first probie, and they say you never forget your first. And how could I? You were the greeniest, probie'est probie of them all. Despite that, look what we've done together: We made it through the entire hunt for Ari; through Kate; then breaking in Ziva; Gibbs retired… then came back. Remember his moustache? That might have been a sign of the apocalypse, but we made it through. There was your rip-off of our lives for your book (which should completely be a movie with someone like Bradley Cooper playing Agent Tommy so if you ever get an offer to sell the rights, don't play McMute on me). Somehow, we made it through Vance's radical breakup of the three musketeers; through Somalia; the building even blew up on us… I mean, come on. You were right in the teeth of the explosion when it shattered the windows in the squad room, but all you needed was a band aid afterward. I'm not saying I thought you were Iron Man or indestructible after that, but I've… Well, after everything, I've gotten pretty used to you being around. I know we talked for a few minutes a week or so ago, but it feels longer. I did the math and it's been nearly 20 days since you left the office. I'm not complaining or anything, but it's not the same when you're not there, and I noticed that… a lot this week. You're like my own pet energizer bunny. I put you down and try to stop you, but you somehow keep going. We're the NCIS version of the dynamic duo; you're the Robin to my Batman. So, I'm asking you—telling you—you need to get better, man. I've got bad guys still to catch, and I need my McWingman to do that."

McGee made no sign he heard a word Tony said or that he was even aware there was a visitor in the room. Tony sat quietly deciding that watching the patient breathe was not interesting (or dignified). He knew he should leave, but part of him did not know what else to do with himself. He had done what Gibbs wanted and come to the hospital to see McGee. He had done with Rachel wanted and said… a lot of things to McGee—things Tony wasn't sure he completely recalled saying now that the moment had passed but things he was just as glad McGee never heard. Not that the guy would take issue with any of it (or possibly ever mention it again) but still there was a guy code and (technically) McGee was a guy. Despite what his men's group was teaching him, Tony didn't think he and McGee needed more togetherness right now.

He was so muddled in his thoughts on this that he did not notice the patient's eyes open and the drugged gaze slowly land on him until he spoke.

"Tony?" McGee said slowly as his voice came out in a weak and pained whisper.

"McGee," Tony blinked as he sat up straighter. "Hey there. Back in the land of the conscious? Any hot nurses in your dreams? The ones working here aren't bad so you might want to keep a sharp eye. Think about it, Tim. Nurses fall for patients all the time in movies and TV cop dramas."

"You okay?" McGee asked.

"Me?" Tony nodded. "Yeah."

"Not hurt?" he asked in a desperate and scared voice.

"No," Tony assured him. "I'm good. I'm just sitting here, waiting for you. It's… uh… good to see you and hear you. You're… doing good. Just hang in there, and you'll be out of here in no time. So, uh, how… uh, how are you feeling? Okay?"

"No," he replied with a slight shake of his head. "Not good. Worried."

"Why?" Tony asked as he stood up and prepared to summon help. "Do you need a doctor? Are you in a lot of pain? Is something wrong?"

"That's what… I'm wondering," McGee offered a bit breathlessly. "You're being nice. I must be… dying."

Tony wheeled back toward the bed as a smile ghosted briefly across his face, erasing the lines of worry etched there, but was swiftly replaced by a scowl. McGee registered the expression and sighed shallowly with relief.

"I oughta Gibbs slap you," Tony growled but kept his voice on the soft side to avoid drawing the wrath of the watchers at the nurse's station. "Between the drugs you're already on and the percussive management, it might knock some sense into your McEggHead. What's the matter with you? Make me think there's something wrong. I should call a nurse in here to have her fluff something that aches."

"Better," McGee grinned wearily. "That's the Tony… I know."

Tony snorted derisively as he pulled up the chair again. He quickly shelved his kinder, gentler routine for some realistic McNozzo tough-love—something McGee apparently needed to hear to set his mind at rest.

"You actually look like hell, by the way," Tony said gruffly. "Like some emaciated class room pet that no one left water or food for over Christmas vacation. Not that I need help looking good beside you any day, but this is a fish in a barrel moment. Don't delude yourself into thinking those two cute nurses, Cindy and Sheila—the blond and the strawberry blond—are being nice to you for any reason other than they are paid to do so."

"Insecurity still… intact," McGee muttered. "Where's…." He pauses as he organized his thoughts and found the right name and face. "Ellie? Where's Ellie?"

Tony smirked, realizing what he was doing, making sure not to say the wrong thing. The fact he remembered Ellie was good, but Tony suspected a different name had initially been on his tongue. What he didn't know was whether it had been Kate or Ziva.

"At the office doing probie work," Tony assured him. "All jokes aside, how are you feeling?"

"Not sure," he replied listlessly. "Hurts."

"Yeah," Tony nodded understandingly. "I can see that. Your grandmother told me your sensitive system can't take the adult drugs. If you behave, I think they'll give you all the baby aspirin you can chew."

McGee's weak scoffing grin was wiped clean by a wince and grimace of pain. His head was cloudy and his mouth slow and sluggish as he tried to speak. The pain was acute but more of a persistent dull throb than the stabbing sensations he recalled from a previous waking moment. Or moments. It bothered him how confused he was about when he was awake and for how long.

Tony watched him go paler with an obvious wave of pain as his breath grew shallower. McGee's sunken, hollow eyes rolled back in his head.

"Hey, take it easy," Tony said with concern. "Stay with me or I'll… get lonely."

"What's today?" McGee asked as he struggled to focus on his visitor.

"Saturday," Tony said. "Don't ask me the actual date because I'm not sure. I've been busy this week picking up your slack. My replacement office gopher hasn't been available to fill in the little, insignificant details for me. Good lackeys are hard to find these days."

"Be nice… to Palmer," McGee offered as his eyes dropped closed again.

"Funny," Tony said then rolled his eyes. "McGee? Hey? You with me? Tim?"

He sighed as there was no reaction from the corpse-like creature in the bed. Figuring there would be no further conversation, Tony left the room. He stepped into the hallway to find that the sun had begun to sink in the sky and turn the walls a fading orange shade he thought of as "office lite." He was pondering the pastel when he felt a hand on his arm.

"Thank you, Tony," Penny said, visibly moved and affected by his visit. "He doesn't always remember what was said in a conversation, but he tends to recall seeing visitors, and he's been asking for you."

"We didn't really chat much," Tony said.

"Just being here has done more than you can possibly know," she nodded at him.

"Penny, bottom line this for me," Tony said. "I get that his doctor's a rock star, but how's this going to end? They telling you anything other than take it day-by-day so far?"

Penny sighed but offered a tired smile as she patted his shoulder.

"Actually, just a couple hours ago we were given the day-by-day speech," she explained as tears glistened in her weary eyes. "We've been on the hour-to-hour plan until this afternoon. I'm hoping that maybe he'll have a good night and another good day after that so that maybe, just maybe, we'll get the nod to start thinking in terms of tomorrows."

The revelation stunned Tony and made his stomach and chin simultaneously drop. Without thinking, he simply nodded then spontaneously hugged the woman. She looked like she needed it; if the sob she smothered in his shoulder was any indication, he was right in that assessment. As the matriarch, he suspected Penny was the one everyone in the family was leaning on and probably the one no one thought to give comfort or support to; he knew from experience that people often forgot that the strongest pillar could also crack even if it didn't immediately crumble.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Tony's Apartment_**

Tony arrived at his building to find someone sitting on his threshold wearing a pouting expression and haggard eyes. He felt his heart freeze momentarily with fear upon seeing her but figured logically if something had happened in the hour it had taken him to drive from Baltimore back to the District, he would have received a phone call. Of course, just to double check logic, he peeked at his phone to make sure he didn't miss any messages. Satisfied he did not, he approached his visitor.

"Abby?" he asked cautiously. "What are you doing here?"

She stood up and offered him a frown that broken into a something less angry yet sadder before she threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly around the neck.

"I'm sorry, Tony," she said in a rush. "I know you were just doing your job, and I had no right to be mad at you—except, it was terrible the way I found out everything and that's not really your fault except that it wouldn't have happened that way if you had told me the truth sooner."

He heard the emotional and conflicting statements for what they were: a heartfelt (if still a little pissed) apology from a woman whose inner life was only slightly more complicated than the chaos that washed up in her lab with each messy case. He was just glad her cold war with him had ended as swiftly as it had (and before she felt the need to retaliate in anyway… although, the stranglehold she had on him was questionable).

"Abby," he croaked. "If you're not mad, could you stop strangling me?"

"Oh," she gasped as she released him. "Sorry for that, too. I've been sitting here, waiting, and I just wanted to say that we're okay, you and me. At least, for me we are. Are we okay?"

Tony sighed and nodded.

"We're good," he assured her as he opened the door and gestured for her to enter. "It's be a crappy week, and I thought I'd make a healthy dent in a bottle of Scotch so that I can get some sleep. Couch is yours if you want to join me."

Abby too had been struggling with sleep and had not yet thought of self-medicating. Then again, this was the first night when she knew there would be no need to go into the office in the morning. A recent call to the hospital let her know that McGee was sleeping again. She wanted to see him again. Still, she understood that McGee's sister was still banned from his room so Abby felt guilty getting any time with him. Her plan was go to the hospital briefly that night then return the next afternoon to see if Sarah needed to talk to someone or if Mrs. McGee or Penny needed anything done for them.

"Oh, come on," Tony encouraged. "You and me, a little overdue chat about nothing of importance and too much alcohol. We've earned it."

"I don't…," she hesitated but her expression was not set on leaving to spend another night starring at her ceiling and thinking terrifying thoughts when she was alone.

"No point in going to the hospital," Tony said. "I just went to see him. The doctor told his family that he's doing better, but he's out for the night. He's completely loopy on narcotics when he is awake. I say we follow his lead and numb to the pain."

Abby sighed then nodded as she agreed to the plan. An hour later, and not nearly as much drinking as she would have expected to get lightheaded, they were violating the initial premise of not discussing work. Tony lounged commandingly in his massing recliner while Abby curled up in the corner of the couch. They were locked in a discussion about the odd turns in the squad room's focus. Abby had not been upstairs at the office much so she was unaware of any theories the investigators were pursuing. While she conceded her mind had grown hazy, she also knew that Tony's offerings were not logical.

"Okay, Tony, I'm very tired and a little drunk here, but even I know there was no evidence there was an Admiral at that base in Afghanistan," Abby said. "What does Porter have to do with any of this?"

Tony scoffed and shrugged as he stared at his empty glass. He was as confused as Abby—just as inebriated and perhaps bit less tired—but just as lost on Gibbs' current fixation.

"I'll give you the same answer Burley gave Ellie: It's Gibbs," Tony said. "Of course, Ellie's not buying it. She's grasping at straws now. She thinks Porter's might be having a fling with Carol, which is crazy. Carol's only been a widow for five or six months."

Abby shrugged, not buying the theory either, but also finding Tony's reason for dismissing it not very strong. She knew a bit more about the McGee clan than Tony did; she had for a long time. McGee told her things he didn't share with the others over the years, always had.

"Carol was estranged from her husband for like a decade, Tony," Abby shook her head as she blinked slowly while fighting off a yawn. "I don't know that she feels like the sheltered, grieving widow. I just don't think she's been seeing anyone. Besides, Porter's still in the Navy; he's on ships all the time. Carol lives in Dallas where there is no ocean."

Tony nodded, accepting that evidence and finding it pleasing. He did not know much about Porter, but he did not like the suggestion that Carol had an affair of any sort. Usually, he was the first to suspect the wife in all investigations—and this one would be no different—except Carole wasn't the wife in this case. She was the mother. He rarely suspected mother's without extremely good cause, of which there was none in this instance. He then chuckled as another possibility came to his mind.

"Palmer's got a theory along those lines," Tony snorted. "He thinks Porter is an old flame trying to get back into Carol's life now that her husband is gone; the autopsy gremlin wondered if Porter's been playing McGee's guardian angel because Tim is really his son."

Tony rolled his eyes and shook his head at the melodramatic story. Abby simply laughed and shook her head.

"Not a chance," she said. "Palmer should know that DNA doesn't lie."

"You did a DNA test on McGee?" Tony laughed, not finding it too surprising. "Seriously, are you hiding a clone of him down in your lab to torture and to play with whenever McGee 1.0 is too busy to visit you? Did you tap into the armed services DNA databank to compare it to Admiral McGee's?"

"No, on both accounts," Abby answered. "I'm saying McGee's DNA, which I do not have, doesn't lie. All the proof you need is in the eyes, Tony."

"The eyes don't lie?" Tony repeated at a loss to understand. "I don't get that."

"Well, you've never looked deeply into McGee's eyes," she said knowingly.

Tony's scowled at the thought of doing that then shirked in his chair.

"Uh, no, we don't do the deep, soulful gazing into each other's eyes," he shook his head. "We're not staring in a buddy bromance show in the CW. I know McGee's eyes are kind of like his mothers, but other than that… What are we talking about eyes for again?"

Abby scoffed and shook her head pityingly at his confusion before explaining her short-hand answer.

"McGee has a slight but cute case of central hertochromia," she replied with a sad smile while she thought of the anomaly.

"Ouch," Tony winced. "Does it itch? Do they make a cream to take care of that? He and I have been in some close spaces together, should I get checked?"

Abby shook her head as she smirked.

"Central hertochromia is a condition in which the person has varying degrees of a different pigment at the center of the eye," she explained then sniffed as she pictured it. "McGee has a very slight gold ring around his pupil. You really have to look to see it, but it is definitely there."

"Screwed up eyes, huh?" Tony snorted. "No wonder I don't trust his aim. All this time, I thought it was because he was a lefty… and a bad shot."

Abby eyed him sternly.

"It doesn't affect vision," she said. "It just changes the color of the eye a bit. It's kind of rare, and it's definitely genetic. Admiral McGee had it as well. So, father and son—it's enough proof for this scientist to debunk a theory about another admiral siring your partner."

Tony paused and considered her offerings. He had never noticed the blemish in McGee's eyes. He smirked thinking that in other circumstances, he would have joked that naturally he never saw anything in McGee's eyes as Tony never gazed at his partner that way—he wasn't Abby after all.

"I'm glad you went to see him," Abby said. "I know it's hard, but it's important. Hearing familiar voices will help him and, you know, if something goes wrong… That's why I came to talk to you tonight rather than waiting until Monday. Things happen that sometimes mean you can't fix what's wrong."

Tony twisted uncomfortably in his seat. He wasn't sure why he had avoided going previously entirely. He knew his reasons, but they didn't make sense to him—even after telling them to the unconscious patient. He didn't feel much more settled about the whole situation after the visit. Tony had seen dead bodies many times. He had seen people with massive injuries. He had seen both on people he knew and cared for, but at this time, he keeping his distance seemed like the professional thing at first. How he felt about it now was not something he wanted to think about—it was the reason he had chosen Scotch for dinner rather than takeout.

"Well, it wasn't much of a visit," Tony shrugged. "He's still out of it. No reason to sit and just stare at him. It's not how guys do things."

"He woke up for me," Abby said encouragingly. Tony looked at her in surprise. "It was just for a few seconds, but I got to talk to him. That was… good. It made me feel a little better. I'm still so worried about him, but that helped me a bit."

"Yes, well, you worry about everyone," Tony grinned. "You're like the official NCIS worrier. You save us a lot of time by taking on that load. We should thank you more."

"This is serious, Tony," she said in a tight voice as she sniffled. "He could still die."

"Okay, you're gonna get weepy so you're cutoff for the rest of the evening, and he's not going to die," Tony shook his head. "You're just in worry overdrive, but that does raise a question or two for me. You were happy to shout McGee out of your lab before he left for Afghanistan, but the Friday before he was supposed to return, you went all out with the festive welcome home decorations—it looked overboard even for you when you are not mad at him. Want to tell me why?"

Abby remembered that evening with a pang of regret. It seemed longer than a week ago. It was another lifetime in some respects. She sighed and shrugged.

"I wanted him to know he was missed and that I was glad he was home," she said in a small, uncertain voice.

"Abby," Tony fixed her with a doubting gaze. "You know that as part of the investigation, we went through his email."

He had not read her letters to McGee precisely. He noted they were sent, that they were unread by the receiver, and that a quick skim of the words made him feel like he was spying on private moments so far from work-related that they were not meant for prying eyes.

"Those weren't for anyone but McGee," she said quietly.

"I didn't read them in depth," he admitted as he sighed and looked at the ceiling with resignation that he was likely poking a bear with his next statement. "I just know they were lengthy and personal. I don't know why he never read them, but it's good that he didn't. I know you two do your tango around each other once in a while to see if that old itch still needs a scratch, but that always means more to him than you intend it to, Abby. Considering what's happened, do the guy a favor while he's recovering: Don't get into his head like that. His actual heart is literally broken right now. Don't add emotional bruising to it."

He expected some resistance but received none. A quick look in her direction gave him the reason. She was asleep, cuddling with one of his couch cushions. With snort of defeat, he dragged himself to his feet then draped a blanket over her before staggering to his own room where he face planted into his bed and drifted off to sleep.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	12. Chapter 12

**oOoOoOo**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Bishop's face twisted in frustration. It was mid-morning on a Monday and, other than a headache, she had nothing new to add to her report for Gibbs that would please the man.

Of course, she reminded herself, he wanted answers and even negative information would help narrow the field of those. That she wasn't any closer to supporting her supervisor's theory on Admiral Porter (whatever it was), she did have at least once piece of information that removed one possibility.

"They haven't known or seen each other socially in more than a decade," Bishop said as she turned in her chair to face Gibbs. "Mrs. McGee and Admiral Porter, I mean. She has no romantic involvements at this time."

"She and Admiral McGee were separated for a while before he died," Gibbs pointed out.

"Yes, but they never divorced," she replied. "She hasn't been in a relationship with anyone else—that's according to her neighbors and of her several friends."

"What about the real estate guy?" Gibbs wondered, having heard passing mention of someone who was a regular companion of McGee's mother over the years.

"That would be Griffin Price," Bishop said as she read her notes then shook her head confidently. "He's not that kind of friend."

"That kind?" Gibbs asked looking over the top of his glasses. "Which means what?"

"Griffin is a highly successful real estate developer in Dallas who lost his longtime companion, Bruce Talmadge, just before Mrs. McGee moved to that city," Bishop said. "Griffin and Mrs. McGee became friends as neither had any intimate relationships going on in their lives. They bonded over their personal losses and have been very close ever since, but there is no romantic involvement between them. I spoke to Griffin, who made me promise never to call him Mr. Price—ever, and he assured me that Mrs. McGee has remained faithful to her wedding vows although Griffin cannot understand why and he has encouraged her numerous times to find someone else. He was not a fan of Admiral McGee. He is, however, fond of both Tim and his sister, Sarah, and looks upon them as though they were his own family. He arranged the condo in Baltimore for Mrs. McGee and Dr. Langston while Tim is in the hospital."

Gibbs grunted gruffly. He did not expect the answers to come easily in this case—the involvement of Simocorp demonstrated that. The company was responsible on some level for what happened, except that responsibility was prompted primarily by dereliction of duty and incompetence. Their operatives worldwide with military involvement were under scrutiny and proving to be a colossal headache for Sec Nav and several congressmen on the defense spending committee.

"So what do you know about Porter other than he isn't seeing Carol McGee?" Gibbs asked. "They certainly know each other well enough for him to contact her to get her son to have dinner with him."

Bishop sighed. She was continuing with the inquiry because she was ordered, but every piece of evidence she gathered seemed to back up her own assertion that there was no reason to keep gathering evidence. Everything was a dead end.

"I don't know; if there is a reason it's a secret that no one seems to…," she said then paused as the concept of a dead end spawned an outlandish idea. "You know what? Let me get back to you on that. I need to go out for a while."

"Why?" Gibbs asked.

"To check on something," she replied as she grabbed her bag and keys as Gibbs' stare bore a whole in her.

"On secrets?" Gibbs asked flatly.

"In a way—more like people who deal in secrets," she admitted. "I know someone who might talk to me as long as it is face-to-face. He doesn't trust electronic communication unless he's the one initiating it."

Gibbs nodded, understanding the cryptic reference to mean NSA.

"Jake?" he wondered.

"No," she shook her head. "He'd tell me it was illegal and that I'd need a warrant to even ask the questions and another to get any information that might answer the question."

Gibbs waved her off, not sure what she was looking for but glad that she was still looking. Following his conversation over the weekend with Rachel Cranston, he knew his team was thinking he was wasting valuable resources, not listening to reason or withholding vital information. Cranston worried that their lack of voicing this concern to Gibbs openly was not a good sign. He was not worried. The fact they were still following his directive despite their doubts was what made them a good team.

Of course, he knew he could not leave all the digging up to them. He needed answers about Porter and he noted that Bishop, despite her debunking of the affair angle, had not yet spoken to someone who could answer some of the questions directly. He looked to the sole remaining member of his team in the office that morning as he stood to leave.

"I'm going to Baltimore," Gibbs said to Tony who started to rise from his chair. "Stay here. Find out who recruited and armed the shooters."

"That's what I've been doing," Tony said with a lost expression as Gibbs made his way to the elevator. "Honestly, Boss! That whole thing with checking my bank account balance earlier was just like 10 seconds and… Right. Shooters. On it. Still."

 **oOoOoOo**

 **Wyman Park Neighborhood, Baltimore**

Gibbs parked beside the curb in the upscale, row house neighborhood. The humidity of the day made even the buildings wilt. Gibbs debated calling before knocking on the door. He was debating the sagacity of doing so when he spied the woman he was coming to visit; she was approaching from the opposite end of the street. She was in mid-yawn as he got out of his car and waited on the sidewalk in front of her.

"Jethro," Carol said tiredly. "I'm not going to ask how you knew were we are staying. I raised Timothy to be respectful of a person's privacy. I don't want to know that the badge he carries absolves him of those lessons."

Gibbs grinned in a partially guilty fashion. Her son, he knew, was perhaps the greatest invader of privacy on the team as McGee was the one with the deepest skill set for prying and spying electronically into a person's life. His hacking skills confounded Gibbs usually, but the team leader did not dissuade them as they produced results.

"Anything he might do in the course of his duties is covered by the law—or so he tells me," Gibbs said. "As for how he does what he does, I don't understand most of it, but I know some of the blame for how he does it belongs to a school in Massachusetts."

"And to think, I was always so proud he went to MIT," she smirked then nodded as she pointed to the house.

As she began to ascend the steps, she mused to herself that her son's extracurricular activities involving computer security (and the breeches he could cause) was something they never discussed. Sarah often made playfully accusing remarks about and to her brother about that, but the truth of the matter was not something Carol ever pursued. She also knew that MIT taught her son new ways to do what he already knew how to do when he first enrolled there. How he learned to do those things in the first place was not something she needed to know.

"If you are here looking for expertise with a computer, I am sorry to report that Penny would be more adept than I am, but she is sleeping," Carol explained as she unlocked the door. "Sarah could run circles round both of us, but she's at the hospital now. We are taking just 8-hour shifts now since Sarah is allowed in his room again."

"How is he doing?" Gibbs asked.

"Someone from NCIS calls twice a day to get an update," Carol said knowingly. "I suspect you get the information regularly."

Gibbs nodded.

"Mother's reports are different from nurses and doctors," he replied as he followed her into the dwelling.

Carol paused in the foyer then sighed heavily.

"He has a long way to go before I can actually say he is better, but I am more hopeful today than I have been since this started," she answered. "They finally have his medication balanced so he isn't in excruciating pain all the time, but he also isn't unconscious or incoherent. Anthony's visit this weekend helped him a lot. I can tell he's calmer. His mind seems clearer since they spoke."

"His memory is back in order?" Gibbs asked hopefully. He knew it would be better for McGee if it was; it would also be better for the investigation.

"I don't think so," she shook her head sorrowfully. "He still doesn't remember his father dying or the funeral. We've told him the truth and he accepts it as true, but he says he doesn't recall it independently. The same goes for the death of Agent Todd. He remembers that Miss David replaced Agent Todd and even why she did, but he doesn't recall Agent Todd's death or anything surrounding it."

"Are those his only missing memories?" Gibbs asked.

"We don't know yet," Carole replied. "He's still weak and not very talkative even when he is awake. Dr. Cranston spoke with him this morning. She believes Penny is right about Timothy blocking out painful memories. My son tells me a lot about his life, but I've been a mother for more than 30 years. I know he's never told me everything, so I wouldn't know if he was missing other parts, other hurtful events in his life that he can't face right now. Dr. Cranston believes that those memories can be recovered, but…"

She sighed heavily as she walked to the small kitchen and leaned on the counter top wearily.

"But?" Gibbs prompted as he followed her as he spied the look on her face.

"I'm his mother," Carol said in a voice etched thin with pain. "My instinct is to protect him. I don't see the value in reviving memories that pain my son to the point that he needs to lock them away in order to survive this. I know that people need to face their fears and that we learn from losses, but I think Timothy knows enough."

Gibbs sighed and nodded. Some part of him understood what she was saying; however, very little in him agreed with it.

"You don't know what else he's blocked," he offered. "I understand wanting to protect your child, but letting those memories stay hidden won't do that. Carol, I know firsthand what it feels like to misplace memories. It can be its own form of torture. They're with us whether we remember the specifics or not; you feel them in your gut. It's better if you know why you have those feelings."

She faced him with a sad smile that was full of understanding and heartbreak. She then chuckled softly and shook her head while drawing a questioning gaze from Gibbs.

"I never understood when Timothy would describe you to me," she admitted. "What he said confused me. At first, what he said reminded me hauntingly of John—gruff demeanor, a man of rules and results, hard to please with high expectations at all times with no room for avoidable errors—but there was also the famed Gibbs gut. I couldn't reconcile a rigid military man with someone who had such deep instincts about people to the point that all I could call it was passion. Now I see why you fascinated Timothy so much. You mastered what his father never did. John was never able to find that balance within himself."

"I thought they were talking before the Admiral died," Gibbs noted.

"They were better with each other, but there was still a long way to go and not enough time to get there," Carol sighed. "Even John knew, at the end, that you have a more cordial and closer relationship with Timothy than he had. That is why, given the circumstances, I was more reassured that you were with him in Germany than I ever would have been if John had been alive and gone in your place."

"It's what you do to take care of your team," Gibbs said.

"It's how family behaves," she nodded. "That's what I was trying to say. John would have been worried and demanding answers, but you did what he wouldn't have done. You went to Timothy. His father probably would have been on the phone ordering someone to take care of Timothy and see that he was getting proper treatment and that he was brought home, but he couldn't have—wouldn't have—dropped everything and gone to his son's bedside. He didn't have the emotional capacity. He wasn't confident enough to show that side of himself."

Gibbs remained silent. It was not his place to judge the dead man; although, if the man was still alive and had not gone to his son's aid, the agent surely would have. One thing John McGee never understood, in Gibbs' estimation, was how fragile life was; how quickly it could change; how swiftly and without warning you could lose everything. Gibbs had never taken his family for granted and still lost them in the blink of an eye. He did not choose to be in the Gulf when Shannon and Kelly died. He was ordered to be there. He did not even find out about their passing until nearly 72 hours after it happened. It took another 56 hours to get him back to the states. By then, the funeral was upon them, the coffins were sealed, and the headstones were being carved. His last glimpse of his family was of them standing in the driveway with tear-stained faces waving goodbye and worried that he might not make it back.

"I was glad to do what I could," Gibbs said shaking himself out of the memory. "Has anyone said if Tim will remember anything about the attack or his trip to Afghanistan?"

Carol shook her head.

"I haven't asked, and I would appreciate it if you didn't ask Timothy either—not yet," she said. "He may be doing better, but he's not strong enough to be questioned yet. There's a chance those memories might be lost due to the physical trauma of what happened to him. When he was in a car accident when he was 16, he lost all memory of the day it happened."

Gibb nodded, accepting the answer and recalling his agent talking about that incident previously. While McGee's recollection of his time in Afghanistan might help the investigation, what interested Gibbs more in this instant was the family's connection to the mysterious admiral who remained in the periphery of the inquiry still.

"How well do you know Admiral Porter?" he asked without preamble.

"Paul?" she blinked. "He was a friend of John's for years. We met him in Norfolk. He was assigned to John's command. While he had the Enterprise, John made Paul his XO."

"Norfolk?" Gibbs questioned. "Not Alameda?"

"Oh, maybe," she shook her head. "It was so long ago. It might have been when we were stationed in California. Yes, now that you say that, it must have been because of Timothy."

"I don't follow," Gibbs said.

"John and Timothy weren't always awkward with each other," she recalled. "It started just after Timothy's fifth birthday when John's career rapidly accelerated. The bombing of the Marine base in Beirut changed U.S. Naval presence in the Persian Gulf and suddenly, John was gone more often than not. After we met Paul a few years later, he noticed the tension between them and pushed for Timothy to see what John did for a living so he convinced John and I to allow Timothy to take a Tiger Cruise."

A Tiger Cruise, Gibbs knew, was a short float for most boats but served as a chance for family and friends of naval personnel to see up close what the US sailors did on a day-to-day basis; they did that by joining that family member on the ship when it was in transit from one US port to another when there were no strategic maneuvers on the schedule. The minimum age for children to participate was 8 years.

"I think Paul always worried that weekend was what permanently damaged John's relationship with his son," Carol sighed. "Afterward, he always made it a point to ask about Timothy when he talked to John—keeping subtle tabs on him, I suppose, in an effort to make John do the same."

"When was the cruise?" Gibbs asked.

"It would have been in the fall of 1986," Carol said with a furrowed brow as she looked into the past. "I remember it was just after Timothy's birthday since he was finally old enough to go—going was actually his birthday gift. Naturally, John resisted the idea. He said he would be too busy to do anything with Timothy during the cruise, but Paul convinced John to allow it. John flew from San Francisco to San Diego with Timothy. The ship sailed its two-day trip from San Diego back to Alameda. When they left together, Timothy was so excited to spend time with his father that he wouldn't stop talking about it. By the time he got home that Sunday night, I knew I should have never let him go."

"What happened?" Gibbs inquired.

"I don't know," she shrugged. "John admitted he was too busy to spend any time with Timothy during the trip and snapped at him the one time they were together. Timothy wouldn't talk about it. Actually, he…"

She paused and shook her head as the memory was fresh again: the anger at her husband, the frustrations and later worry for her son. Gibbs fixed an intent stare at her, willing her to respond. He felt like a bit of a heel doing this to her. She was not a suspect but whatever passive techniques he could employ to get the answers he was seeking, he would use.

"Carol?" Gibbs prompted her.

"Timothy wouldn't talk at all for a few days afterward, a week actually," she revealed. "I thought he was sick at first, but he wasn't running a fever. I took him to his pediatrician who suggested I… I probably shouldn't tell anyone this, but I made him go see a friend of mine who was a therapist. She got him talking again. What he said to her once he did start talking, I never found out. Naturally, John was livid when he found out about it. My friend, Pamela, uh Lt. Commander Reeves, got transferred to another base not long after John found out I'd had Timothy talk to her. I always suspected John was behind her leaving, but he swore to me he wasn't."

Gibbs nodded, but his suspicion was growing. There was not enough information in her offerings to make any sort of judgement, but there were numerous red flags—the kind that made Gibbs start to wonder if Tony was onto something with his fears about that missing NIS report. It was a sad commentary on the times when so few snippets of information could begin to draw a picture that started to cinch a knot in his gut. Worries that Gibbs would not speak aloud to the woman began to swirl in his mind while his suspicion of Porter evolved as well. Something had occurred on that cruise, something that involved McGee and left him unable or unwilling to talk. Whatever that thing was, it ended up on the radar of Mike Franks, a veteran NIS agent who worked major cases.

"You said Admiral Porter encouraged your husband to take Tim on the cruise," Gibbs asked as the unsettled and sour knot at the possibilities grew tighter in his stomach. "Was Admiral Porter on the cruise?"

"Yes," she replied. "He kept an eye on Timothy as much as he could."

"Did he have any idea why Tim stopped talking?" Gibbs asked. "Did you ever ask him if he knew the specific reasons?"

"I didn't think to ask him," she replied. "The ship left port two days later. They were gone for three months so by the time the Enterprise returned, Timothy was talking again so I didn't see a reason to ask about it."

"Tim remained close with Admiral Porter after that?" Gibbs asked easily. "I know he had dinner with him before the attack."

Carol scoffed and shook her head.

"He didn't want to," she said. "Timothy was never close with any of John's colleagues. I suspected he resented them for his father seeming to prefer their company. I pressured Timothy to accept Paul's invitation while he was overseas, but I did it more for Paul. He took John's death very hard. I thought it would be good for Paul to see Timothy; they could talk about John and it would also get my son out of a war zone."

Gibbs nodded at her explanation, adding the last details to the list he had compiled so far. If not for her continuing fatigue, he sensed Carol would have pursued her own line of questions for him. However, her mind was too tired to delve deeper into Gibb's curiosity.

"I can't believe I've rambled so much about something from so long ago," she sighed. "You came here to talk to me about something, and I've been wasting your time. What can I do for you?"

Gibbs shook his head and relaxed his posture.

"I know Tim's in good hands at the hospital," Gibbs said evasively. "I was just checking on you and the rest of your family."

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Johns Hopkins Hospital_**

Sarah McGee sat by her brother's bedside and glanced at her watch yet again. She had been doing so for an hour—since her mother left after deciding her daughter's mere presence in the room wasn't going to be what put her brother in his grave.

She scoffed quietly in rebuke to both the mother's worries and her own sour attitude. She was not pleased she had been exiled from the hospital room for the last week. She thought it unlikely that she had been the cause of any of Tim's distress previously. The multitude of sutures and needles in his body were a way more likely catalyst than a few sobs from the person in the room who, in her learned opinion, knew him best of all his visitors. While she and Tim were separated by eight years in age, she considered herself closer to him than her mother or grandmother.

She was willing to acknowledge that he shared a distinct bond with their grandmother, but Penny's closeness was primarily forged due to the late Admiral's gruff and standoffish nature, which created guilt and regret in his own mother. The woman was close to Sarah as well; they just had different interests. Sarah sometimes felt like she needed to work harder to get Penny's approval (or notice), but she figured that was a trade off as Tim had to do the same to receiving acknowledgement from their father. While the man had not been much warmer or in-touch with Sarah during her life, she never felt she had to prove anything to the Admiral.

As for their mother, Sarah saw her brother much more often in person than their mother did. Sarah first went to college in Washington and then began attending grad school there. She saw Tim for brunch once each month and called him occasionally… if she needed something. He was used to her mood swings and never was bothered or put off by them; therefore, his racing heart rates and other concerning conditions were not her fault. She said so, adamantly, for the previous week.

Which was why this triumph to be left alone with him felt like a hollow victory. He wasn't awake. He didn't even seem to know she was there. He was supposedly on less powerful medication that should allow him to be alert, but he slumbered on oblivious to her presence so she scowled. She wanted to talk to him. It seemed everyone else had—the doctor, Agent Gibbs, Penny, their mother, Tony… hell, even Abby.

That one irked Sarah. They let Abby—the woman who dumped him years earlier—go see him before his own sister. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. It was insulting.

Almost as insulting as trying for an hour to get his attention through tapping his hand, clearing her throat and saying his name. It was as if he was on another planet. Considering his geeky hobbies, she didn't doubt that was likely where his mind had gone. Her expression softened as she considered the possibilities for him: lay there in near-mortal agony listening to a machine count his heart and breathing rates or drift off to some fantasy play land where the dangers he faced could be defeated by some strange sorcery only he could understand.

"I guess I don't blame you for staying asleep," she said with a sniffle. "I'd like to have gone someplace where I didn't need to deal with the real world for the last week, too."

Whether it was good timing or the fact that her voice held a hint of vulnerability, she did not know, but something made him stir. He pulled himself out of his rest with a great effort as his face scrunched momentarily in pain before he focused his gaze on her.

"Sarah?" he muttered.

"Hi," she greeted him as she huddled close beside the hospital bed. "You're awake, right?"

"I guess," McGee said groggily. "Why are you here?"

"Why?" she repeated. "Geez, I don't know, Tim. Maybe I'm trying to siphon of the high octane juice from your IV's. What would something like that go for—street value—any idea?"

His expression morphed from vacuous to a weakened version of his stern/concerned look. She got that look from him often, usually when he was about to lecture her about responsibility—the kind of speech most of her friends received from their parents rather than their siblings. Then again, her brother had been more of a guardian and parental figure to her growing up while their father was away on long deployments. The harangues did not last long and were normally predictable. He did not disappoint her this time either.

"Drug trafficking and distribution is a felony," McGee said automatically in a breathless voice barely above a whisper. "You shouldn't joke about it even. Kills people. Ruins lives."

"Do you ever stop?" she groaned. "I don't need a _Just Say No_ talk."

"Temperance lecture, then," he guessed as he fought against the heavy pull of his lids. "You look hungover. Bad things happen when you drink, Sarah."

She blanched at the assessment—mostly because it was true—but also because she was not aware he was lucid enough to notice such things. Her head was killing her still after having a few glasses of wine with a friend the previous night during an impromptu therapy session at her friend's apartment. She hadn't done anything bad, except for sob her eyes out for the better part of three hours.

"You're in no condition to read me the riot act," she scoffed. "I'm fine. You…." She sighed then stopped and shelved her normal bratty banter. "You scared me, Tim. You're not supposed to get hurt. The night before you left for Afghanistan, you promised me you would be careful. This is not the result of someone being careful."

McGee swallowed dryly as he fought to keep the room in focus. The aches in his chest, the ones he was growing used to, were not as sharp as previously but his head remained fuzzy. His sister's complaint about a failed promise made little sense to him; of course, he did not remember making it. Rather than ponder it further, he set about trying to deduce what time it was. After several sweeps of the room with his slow gaze, all he could determine was that it was daytime. Beyond that, he had no clue. Still, it offered him a new course for the conversation.

"Why aren't you at work?" McGee asked.

"You're worried about my job?" Sarah growled. "You're laying here wallpapered in bruises with thread holding you together, but you want to give me grief about my 20-hour per week TA job at the university? Getting fired would be a highlight of my week. I've got like three offers to become an editor at two different boutique publishing houses so stop fussing about my job."

"I'm worried about you," he replied in a fading voice. "You need to take care of yourself."

"I take care of myself just fine," she said as she knuckled tears out of her eyes with one hand while clasping his with trembling fingers with the other. "So, newsflash, genius: Everyone is more interested in taking care of you right now—that includes me."

McGee blinked slowly, feeling confused at the tears rolling down her cheeks and unsure what he could do to stop them. Sarah did not cry often. Something had to be seriously wrong and scaring her for it to happen. It was usually his job to fix those kind of problems, but he couldn't begin to guess how he might do that this time.

"It's okay," he said weakly. "Everything will be fine."

"Stop trying to reassure me," she sniffled as she stifled a chuckle. "I'm supposed to do that for you. You're not the big brother right now; you're the patient. Are you feeling any better? You look better than the last time they let me see you. Guess your visit with Tony was good for you."

McGee blinked as the hazy memory of his partner's visit floated through his mind. The image of Gibbs with a moustache flashed in his mind for some unknown reason then faded as another face loomed in his mind as well.

"Is Abby here?" he asked.

Sarah scoffed and scowled at the question. She thought the list of permitted visitors should be truncated to keep several NCIS personnel out of the room—the leading ones being Dr. Mallard and the forensic scientist. She favored revoking the medical examiner's visiting rights for two reasons. One, Penny share more with him than she did with her own granddaughter about Tim's condition; Sarah considered that a personal affront. Next, Sarah did not like having a man who specialized in dead bodies so close to her brother when he was still in a precarious condition. It gave her shivers.

As for Abby, Sarah had never met her. That alone was suspicious enough in her book. Sarah knew what Abby had meant to her brother—anyone who read _Deep Six_ knew. A normal adult might have been able to move past the heartbreak her brother suffered over being dumped by the doppelganger for Amy Sutton, but Sarah's brother was anything but normal. He may have tried to move on, but considering his latest breakup, she feared he was drifting back to the one heartbreak he had never fully recovered from—adding that desire to his random memory loss worried Sarah.

"No," Sarah lied smoothly. "Abby hasn't come to see you. I think she's probably really busy at NCIS. I'm sure you'll see her when you're ready to go back to work."

"I thought she was here," he muttered. "I thought we talked."

"Nope," Sarah shook her head. "It was just a dream. She hasn't come by or even called."

McGee blinked slowly, processing her jumble of words. He had been certain he saw and heard Abby. He thought he had even spoken to her. He did not recall much of what he did say, but the memory of it was still strong. It felt different than recalling a dream.

"She really wasn't here?" he asked.

"No," Sarah shook her head. "There's no reason for her to be here, Tim. You've been confused about a few things, like thinking Dad talked to you, but he didn't. That was a dream, too."

She then winced as she watched sadness descend over his features. She told herself that confessing her lie would not help. She also persuaded herself that Abby would agree with this course of action. From what Sarah knew, the woman was no longer interested in her brother so any distance Sarah could help maintain for his coworker would just make things easier as he moved through the vulnerable stages of recovery. Sarah assured herself that what her brother needed was to heal from everything that ailed him right now—wounds both new and old.

"Don't worry about who is coming to see you right now," she continued. "Just concentrate on getting better so you can leave the hospital. Hey, I talked to Griffin this morning. He wanted me to tell you to hang in there and keep getting stronger. He's working on a plan to fly you back to Dallas with Mom after you're discharged—he might arrange for a private flight even. That'll be cool. He also said something about having you fix his laptop as repayment. You know how inept he is with anything electronic and how he hates talking to tech support on the phone—remember three years ago for Mom's birthday? I thought he was going to get the State Department to put some trade sanctions on India after his Windows upgrade got messed up. Frankly, it's amazing he hasn't ended the world just trying to download an app on his phone."

McGee heard her talking distantly and sensed himself nod although he wasn't fully certain why as his vision grew dark around the edges again.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Bishop was at her desk and scowled at the now empty desk where Burley had spent the previous week. Vance had sent him back to his actual posting now that the Simocorp aspect of the investigation was solved. That left the remaining team members to sew up the final strings of the investigation. That also made her scowl. Unfortunately, her expression was aimed (unintentionally) at her visitor, Assistant Medical Examiner Jimmy Palmer. He had wandered into the squad room several minutes earlier in search of company while Bishop had been reviewing a report compiled by the NSA following Admiral McGee's funeral the previous winter. With so many ranking political officials and military officers in attendance, she had guessed (correctly) that there was a large surveillance presence at both the wake and the funeral. She wasn't sure what she hoped to find in the file provided to her, and she wasn't likely to find out now.

Not with her latest tasking.

Gibbs had called during her review of the NSA information and sent her in another direction—a direction that was as obtuse and incomprehensible as his fixation on Porter.

"Does he do that often?" Palmer asked as Bishop continued to computer search. "I mean, does Agent Gibbs just call out of the blue with random requests for information without any context for what he wants you to look for?"

Bishop growled, not at Palmer so much as at the assignment. She wanted to answer his question, but the truth was she couldn't. Her boss did cast a lot of hooks in the water when he was fishing for the truth, but usually she could follow his strategy. This time, she remained lost. For the last week, he had her on Porter duty, stalking the man looking for some elusive shred of evidence that would be a magic bullet tying an admiral to a crime hundreds of miles from him. Now, without warning, Gibbs was sending her on a trip to the past.

When she did not answer promptly, Palmer sighed in solidarity.

"Agent Gibbs' gut is not something easily explained, I guess," he nodded sagely. "As a man of science myself, I would be baffled by it. Makes me wonder what it actually looks like." He grinned then his smile faltered. "I don't mean that I want to have him on the table downstairs to look. I just meant that… Never mind. So have you learned anything new on this lead?"

 _Lead?_

Bishop scoffed. How reviewing reports from a long ago Tiger Cruise was going to help the present day investigation was yet another confounding twist in this investigation. This was not a lead, in her mind. This was yet another distraction.

"What I have is basically nothing—again," she growled. "There was nothing special or out of the ordinary about this Tiger Cruise. It was what they all are: basically a family day at sea. The boat set sail on time. There were no reports of criminal activity or anything suspicious on-board during the two days it was at sea. I see the names of family members who were aboard it. I see the schedule of activities for their participation while on it. I also see their berthing assignments on the it. None of this is exactly intriguing, fascinating or revealing."

"She or her," Palmer corrected here from his seat at Tony's desk. He rested there, with his feet up, while he let the minutes tick by for his lunch hour.

"She or her who?" Bishop asked.

"No, you said _it_ when referring to the ship," Palmer informed her. "I've noticed in the Navy they refer to ships as female. The boat you're talking about is a _she_ or a _her_ not an _it_."

He shrugged at the bit of trivia as he gazed back at her curiously

"Okay," Bishop shook her head. "There is nothing from the day _she_ left port in San Diego or any day until she returned to Alameda a day and a half later. I've read the reports from the XO, the captain, and even the NIS Agent Afloat. Nothing of interest in all that time. The only point of interest is… Well, the captain was McGee's father and it was the XO's last cruise. The man used the trip as his final trip, I guess. They had a big party for him when the ship docked."

Palmer grunted then huffed his surprise

"Isn't that strange?" he wondered and earned a furrowed brow from the agent. "I don't mean that the man retired or that McGee's father was the captain. I mean it seems odd that there were a bunch of kids on the boat and nothing happened. How is it that none of them got into any trouble or fell down or got into a fight? Adult sailors in that same amount of time on a boat that size must encounter some incidents just by virtue of there being so many people aboard. Add kids into the mix, and I would think the incidents would increase. I didn't grow up in the Navy, but military kids are not that much different from civilian kids. My dad took us to family day at his office once or twice and the chaos there was amazing—and there were just a fraction of the amount of people there as would be on a Navy ship. So, to me anyway, the fact that nothing happened on that cruise you're looking into seems weird. Tony's told me that even seasoned agents get lost when navigating around an aircraft carrier the first time, but somehow not one single kid got lost on the ship in that whole time. That is amazing. Of course, if something did happen, I guess it would be in a report, right?"

Bishop nodded, seeing the logic in his questions. She sifted through the reports more but still found nothing out of the ordinary for the cruise other than several of the reports were handwritten. She had to remind herself that part of the reason the early reports for agency took so long to move into the digital format was the fact that they needed to be typed as many of them were taken initially only handwritten. She grumbled about this to Palmer.

"Yeah, I know," he sympathized. "I had to look into an old autopsy report two years ago. It took me forever to decipher the hand scrawled notes. Thankfully, Dr. Mallard was there to help me. It was written by his predecessor, Dr. Magnus, so Dr. Mallard could read the writing. Of course, I also got confused by the dates. See, we do things relatively real-time now with computers, but back then…"

"Real-time?" Bishop repeated then blinked hard as she blanched. "Jimmy, that might be the answer."

"It might?" he twisted his face in confusion as Tony appeared in the hallway, offering him a similar expression as he spied his desk being occupied.

"Yes," she nodded firmly as she began typing frantically.

"This looks suspicious," Tony noted. "She's intrigued, and you're… befuddled. Okay, maybe not suspicious. Maybe this is normal. Never mind, both of you. Carry on—except you, Palmer. Out of my chair. Isn't there a liver needing to be weighed or dental impression to be made?"

Palmer looked at him with the same level of confusion as he gave to Bishop moments earlier. Then he nodded

"You mean from a dead body, of which there is none here but plenty down in autopsy," Palmer nodded then backtracked. "I mean, not plenty. There are enough. Well, not really enough. I mean, I don't want more. Well, I do for job security, but not because I want people to die, which they will whether I want that to happen or not. Of course, if there were any at all in the building, they would be down there because if they were up here that would be bad." Tony looked at him with a restrained yet pained expression as he continued his solo train wreck conversation. "If they were up here, that would mean one of you two was dead or that there was someone else dead up here, which would also be bad… and probably messy and smelly." He grinned widely until he realized no one was joining him. "You know what, my lunch break is almost over so I'm going to go back downstairs."

As he stood from Tony's chair, the agent cast his eyes questioningly at Bishop then back to Palmer for intel. The assistant medical examiner lowered his voice as he looked to Tony conspiratorially.

"Gibbs called her and asked to look into something from a report in 1986 and now she might be looking to time travel," Palmer nodded knowingly.

Tony's eyebrows lifted to his hairline in question.

"Well, she said something about real-time reports and since she's looking into something from 29 years ago, I assumed…," Palmer shrugged. "She was with the NSA. They might have all sorts of… things."

"Runaway now, Jimbo," Tony nudged the man away. "Run fast."

As the autopsy gremlin departed, Tony considered the information he had imparted. It was too much of a coincidence to be an actual coincidence that Gibbs had sent Bishop to dig up a report of some sort from the year 1986—the year of the mysterious NIS report Tony got scolded for looking into previously.

"So, did the boss abandon Porter for a new white whale?" he asked casually.

Bishop did not respond. She instead focused intently on her screen. Tony's interest was piqued. He crossed the room and stood behind her desk, looking at what was so fascinating.

"October 1986?" he questioned, thoughts of a Halloween pranks filling his mind. "So was I right about that old NIS report? It was about McGee and his happy vandal little friends stealing the base commander's furniture, right? Just curiously, how does that get us back to shooters in Afghanistan three decades later?"

"What?" Bishop jumped in her seat as if noticing him for the first time. "I don't know. It doesn't. Not really… except maybe…"

"Except maybe what?" Tony asked. "Ellie, what's the boss after? What's connection here?"

Bishop sighed and looked at Tony with humbled eyes.

"Maybe," she began with trepidation, "Admiral Porter."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** _More to come…_


	13. Chapter 13

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Johns Hopkins—Dr. Susan Westlake's Office_**

The doctor sat at her desk and chewed her lip as she reviewed patient charts on her tablet. She had three prime patients at that moment who were taking up the majority of her time; each was doing very well as her savior streak continued. One was recently moved to stepped down care, one was about to be discharged, and her most recent patient had made miraculous progress in the previous three days that, as of that afternoon, left him rated simply as serious rather than critical. She hoped to upgrade him further to shortly. She was smiling at her success with the McGee case when she became aware of the man standing in front of her desk sporting an inquisitive expression.

"Agent Gibbs," she said as she nodded to him. "What brings you up here? If you're thinking of thanking me, I'll blush with the praise."

"You failed to mention that your ex-husband is Paul Porter, the one who connected you with Carol McGee," Gibbs said without preamble. "Why?"

Westlake glared at him for the intrusion and the accusation. She had previously appreciated the man's fortitude in sticking by her patient's side during the early hours of his treatment and escort across the ocean; however, she didn't appreciate it when coupled with the rock hard doubt and icy suspicion in his eyes.

"I believe what I actually told you was that I knew Paul from his days at the Academy, which was true," the doctor remarked. "We dated while he attended. We married after he graduated. We divorced two years after –I'm not proud of those years of my life. Since then, I've had two other husbands. Trust me, I've had settlement negotiations that lasted longer than my marriage to Paul."

Gibbs nodded. He knew it was nearly 40 years since the two were married. He could accept that she might not disclose details like that when brusquely meeting a stranger during a patient transfer, but he keep his expression stern as he continued to press her.

"Divorced for decades, but you still do him favors," he nodded strategically. "Must have been a fairly cordial parting for you two if you took this case considering it usually takes other medical experts calling you to get your interest. You certainly didn't need the business, Doc."

"Paul and I have remained friends," she said with a tight and displeased smile. "We were young and stupid when we married. Or, I was at least. I had just graduated from medical school and suddenly my new husband was away on maneuvers. I thought I could have it all—including a husband and a boyfriend at the same time. I cheated on him. Paul found out. He was a young officer with lofty ambitions; an adulteress for a wife didn't fit into his plans, so he divorced me quickly and quietly. No lingering animosity. Any other failures of mine you'd like to discuss?"

Gibbs snorted and let part of that line of inquiry drop. It was not a surprise; he had already read the divorce summary filed in the Bethesda court.

"You were unfaithful because he was gone," Gibbs noted. "That the only reason? He not do it for you after the _I do's_? Did he not want kids or something? You have two, right? Daughters—one at NYU and the other at Georgetown."

Westlake stared at him with concern. She did not like that he had dug into any aspect of her life. She did not know why precisely but making it stop was her plan. Telling him whatever he knew seemed like the most likely way—and she figured he knew that.

"Ask me whatever you want, but leave my family out of this," she demanded. "I get that you're salting the details of my life around to show me how much you know already. Ask what's really on your mind, Agent Gibbs. If I've got answers for you, I'll give them."

"Paul Porter," he said. "Interesting guy. Stellar career. Popular for an officer. Can't seem to find anyone who finds fault with anything he's ever done. That's strange. As the ex, I'd be curious what you think."

She glared at him with a serpentine squint to her eyes as she exhaled angrily through her nose.

"I know that Paul likes to be liked," she replied through clenched teeth. "He works a room better than anyone I've ever met. He remembers everyone's name, their spouses' and children's names, whatever they tell him he remembers and he uses to schmooze. He always says the right things to the right people and never gives anyone a reason to blame him for any wrongdoing. For those of us who aren't perfect like he seems to be, it gets annoying, but even people who don't like him can't ever give a concrete reason for why they don't like him. After all these years, the worst thing I can say about him is that I wasn't good enough for him—and that's my opinion not his."

Gibbs snorted. Some people might call a man like that a paragon of leadership. Gibbs' gut didn't feel that was quite right. He filed her opinions away and would present them to his own personality expert for an assessment later.

"He ever mention that he knew your patient before this happened?" Gibbs asked.

Her nostrils flared as a flush of red bloomed under her skin. She then nodded reluctantly.

"He told me he knew Tim's father," Westlake replied. "That's why it didn't surprise me that Paul had reached out for help. I figured Mr. McGee must be someone important who Paul wanted to impress. Helping out the man's son is a good way to do that."

Gibbs nodded. That theory was obviously wrong, but he did not find it worthy of further inquiry at this time.

"Admiral McGee is actually dead," Gibbs said offhandedly. "How often has your ex called you asking for updates on Tim?"

The doctor looked away as her jaw clenched. She tilted her head down in a second expression of guilt.

"He's worried," she defended. "He said Tim's father was very important to his career, that he opened a lot of doors for him so he felt an obligation to do whatever he could to help out the man's son."

Gibbs scoffed derisively and shook his head. He offered her a disbelieving expression and unconvinced smirk.

"You believe that?" Gibbs wondered. "'Cause I don't think you do. You're a smart woman, Doc. You're not sure why he's showing interest in my agent's welfare. Did he seem relieved when he wasn't doing so well?"

She shook her head slowly, but there was a hesitation in the response.

"He was more interested in the fact Tim was experiencing memory deficit," she explained.

"Oh yeah," Gibbs smiled knowingly. "That bothers you a bit—not enough to stop you from breaking privacy laws about releasing information about his condition, but enough that it's making you wonder."

She sighed deeply as she deflated in her chair. She cared about her reputation, but she also cared about her patients. Each one of them, particularly those that made a recovery, were special to her. She normally took a protective stance around them and was ashamed of herself for letting go of that caution when speaking with her ex-husband.

"Do you know why he's interested?" she asked in a fearful tone. "Did he… Your agent was investigating something. Did it involve Paul?"

Rather than answer, Gibbs pivoted deftly to another question, using her rattled mood to his advantage.

"You ever hear anything about Paul, anything at all, that wasn't flattering?" he asked. "Anyone ever tell you a rumor or make an accusation of any kind about him—about anything at all?"

She shook her head, but there was a haunted aspect in her eyes that made him not so certain her negative response was accurate.

"Does your ex-husband know your daughters?" he asked abruptly.

"No," Westlake shook her head. "They know who he is, but I don't mix any of my ex-husbands with my family. What does that have to do with anything?"

Gibbs tilted his head to the side and offered a partial shrug that was both taunting and gave the impression he knew but was not willing to offer a response. She clenched her hands tightly as tight lines appeared around her pursed lips.

"Were you aware that Paul is paying McGee's medical bills?" Gibbs asked.

Burley had found out that detail just before being returned to his normal duty station. What it meant, no one knew. On its face, it appeared to be an altruistic act.

Gibbs wasn't so certain. It had a tinge of guilt to it in his opinion. What was the source of that guilt was the question. Was it for nefarious incidents in the past, or was it for an evil act in the present was the question.

Westlake blanched in surprise at the payment information. She knew her ex-husband had done well for himself. He mentioned something about strong investments and luck in the market along with the Navy picking up a lifetime of housing costs. Not having a family of his own also kept his wallet thick.

"Paul isn't lacking for money," she said. "He has no one to leave his money to when he dies. I would think Tim's family and friends would appreciate the philanthropic assistance. I'm not sure what your issue is with Paul or what you are getting at, but if he did this without Tim's family knowing, it's because he wants to remain anonymous. He does things like that sometimes. It's in his nature to help without seeking credit for it."

"Yeah, I'll bet," Gibbs scoffed. "He ever show interest like this in anyone else's welfare in all the time you've known him?"

Westlake shrugged. They had no money to speak of when they were married; what little they did have had gone to paying her school bills. She hadn't had a great deal of contact with her ex-husband over the years. He still remembered her birthday and sent her Christmas cards most years. He went to her mother's funeral 15 years earlier and when he was in the area did still call her to have dinner. She usually went as she was the one who felt guilty over the failure of their marriage.

"He never remarried or had a family of his own," she admitted. "I always thought that was a shame. Paul wanted a family, but it seemed that the Navy just took over his life. Still, it never made him cold, or bitter, or unkind. Whatever you think of him, Paul genuinely cares about people, Agent Gibbs. He cares about the men under his command. He cares about his friends, and he cares about their families. He even still cares about me despite how our marriage ended. He's never met them, but he sent me a very generous check for each my girls for their high school graduations. That's just who Paul is. I don't know what axe you want to grind on him, but there's nothing more I can tell you. He's… When I was married to him, he was a good man."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Critical Care Unit_**

Gibbs left the doctor's office and descended three floors. He stepped off the elevator to the hallway he left, reluctantly yet exhaustedly, just over a week earlier. He and others at NCIS had kept in close touch with the nurse's station since then; they also kept contact with McGee's family to keep apprised on how their agent was fairing in the intervening days. Since the patient first arrived, a lot had occurred at the office.

Tony and Burley obtained a confession, of sorts, and opened a chasm of doubt on the Defense Department's vetting of contractors. That had DoD investigators and the White House scurrying to create teams for further investigation and appoint special counsels. Congress was doing a lot of finger pointing (or ducking, depending on campaign donor histories). The two shooters responsible for starting the dominoes tumbling were returned to Afghanistan to be buried in unattended graves as no one in Helmand Province would claim them.

While Sec Nav was dropping hints that the investigation was now considered closed, Gibbs wasn't so sure. Vance had just sent Burley back to his normal work. The dispatchers told Gibbs that his team was considered back in the rotation for any new crimes that seemed to reach the major case squad level. He was all for his team, even when one man short, keeping busy and doing their jobs, but he didn't consider this case finished. Not by a long shot.

He was finding, however, he was in the minority in that opinion.

He wore his displeasure on his face as he made his way toward the nurse's station. He did not need to travel far down the hallway before he was met by one of McGee's sentries. Penny turned the corner and spotted him. She walked toward him with a determined stride and frank expression.

"Good timing," Penny said firmly as she pointed in his direction. "You're just the man I wanted to talk to."

"Dr. Langston," Gibbs greeted her cautiously. Her demeanor was formidable, but she did not appear distraught.

"Agent Gibbs, I've told you before to call me Penny," she said grasping his hand with both of hers. "How are you? I've been meaning to call you and thank you for watching over Timothy until Carol and I could arrive. It means so much to us. I know how busy you must be dealing with all of this on the investigative side. What brings you to this antiseptic scented Shangri-La today?"

"I was here on another matter so I thought I would stop by to see how he's doing," Gibbs replied with a hint of concern. "What are you doing here now? I spoke with Carol the other day, and she said you were taking the late night shifts. Did something change?"

Penny groaned then nodded.

"Yes," she said. "The day-help bailed on us. Sarah had to return to work. The professor who is her thesis adviser stopped being understanding—or so she says. She's being evasive for reasons I can't determine. Frankly, right now, I'm not interested pursuing that investigation. I suspect she's still mad that her mother and I prevented her from seeing her brother in the first days he was here. There's also the chance that Timothy told her to stop worrying and go back to work. He's not real helpful on that front; he keeps secrets for her so whatever he might know he's not saying."

Gibbs kept quiet, not offering an opinion. He was familiar with McGee's protective behavior regarding his sister. That she was an adult now and a doctoral candidate apparently had not changed much in the siblings' relationship. In Gibbs' observation, Sarah McGee was a bit of a brat, a well-educated and much-loved by her family brat. He did not understand siblings, having been an only child, but he found it remarkable that the McGee family had turned out two children with such opposite personalities despite similar upbringings.

"Anyway, enough with our family melodrama," Penny said waving off the discussion. "I'm glad you're here. Your timing couldn't be better. I was told that the morning you escorted Timothy here from Germany that Dr. Westlake made some cockamamie boasted to you—something about getting our boy up and walking in 10 days' time."

Gibbs nodded mildly. His recollection, despite the immense fatigue he was experiencing at that time, was still fresh. The doctor's claim seemed grandiose and in poor taste to him at the time as well.

"Yeah, I had my doubts," Gibbs said with a flat expression.

"You and me both," Penny huffed indignantly as she pointed down the hallway. "That brute of a woman completely underestimated my grandson."

Gibbs blinked at the comment then followed the direction of Penny's wave to see McGee walk slowly around the corner with an orderly on either side of him. He was shuffling along at a snail's pace, limping slightly as he used both the orderlies and a cane for support and balance. A wheelchair was pushed by a nurse several steps behind him. An oxygen cannula stretched by long umbilical from his nose to a tank attached to the back of the wheelchair.

"It only took him 8 days," Penny nodded smugly as she jerked her head for Gibbs to follow her down the hall. "Come on. I want more witnesses to prove that woman wrong."

Gibbs shook his head in both appreciation and disbelief at the sight. McGee looked like a walking skeleton. There were hollows in his cheeks. His eyes were ringed with dark circles and his ashen pallor was only slightly livelier and healthier than that of a three-day-old corpse.

But he was standing. He was walking… mostly.

"Hey, Boss," McGee said weakly in a winded fashion.

"Well, look at you," Gibbs said with the ghost of a grin appearing on his stoic face. He gently placed his hand on the back of McGee's head and pet it gently, careful not jostle him off balance. "Atta boy."

"It's 18 steps from my room to here," McGee smiled wanly as he spoke in a breathless fashion. "I'll make it 18 back… I hope."

Gibbs smirked at the combination of amazement, defiance and worry he heard in his agent's voice. Only McGee, he thought, could manage each sensation simultaneously.

"Oh, stop showing off," Penny said snapping her fingers for the wheelchair to be brought closer. The assistants quickly got him seated again. "It's about time I get some attention around here, especially in the presence of so many handsome gentlemen like your two strapping assistants and your rather fetching supervisor."

"Penny, please" McGee groaned from the chair as he tried to pull out the nasal oxygen tubes.

"Hey, you know I'm a sucker for pretty faces," she said as she started to scold him. "Now, stop that tugging on that, Timothy. Dr. Westlake said she would glue it permanently in place if you kept trying to pull it out."

"I don't like it," he said in a half-groan, half-whine.

"Well, it likes you," Penny countered. "Since we all like you and keeping you around getting better necessitates you leaving that damn tube up your nose, I've fallen madly in love with it. So leave it be, kido. What do you say we take a ride back to your room?"

"I can walk back," he protested in a frail voice.

"Timothy, you'll do that tomorrow," she said encouragingly. "Wednesday you walked 18 steps here. On Thursday, you'll do 18 steps to here and then 18 back. Thursdays are a better day for taking 32 steps anyway."

"Thirty-six," he corrected her as he dropped his hand from the oxygen tube in defeat while she re-secured it in place.

"Right," Penny said as she turned and winked at Gibbs. "Thirty-six steps it is. We'll put that on a chart and maybe throw darts at it later. I've got plans to turn your room into the best hang out on this floor."

"She's gonna get me in trouble," McGee said to Gibbs as an orderly turned the chair around and headed back toward the room.

"Yeah, I can see that," Gibbs said. "By the looks of it, they're gonna throw you out of here soon anyway. Might as well give them as many reasons as possible."

"Fine with me—the sooner the better," McGee said wearily. "Someone go find her those darts."

"My young rebel," Penny chided him playfully as she ruffled his hair.

Gibbs shook his head followed them back McGee's room. The medical personnel got him situated in the bed again. The back was raised to a sitting position and appeared to be the only thing keeping his head up as he looked spent. His skin coloring remained a beleaguered, deathly gray. Everything about him appeared hopelessly fragile. His breathing was labored, but he remained awake. Penny breezed out of the room saying something about getting markers and paper to create a target. McGee looked at Gibbs sheepishly.

"She probably means that," McGee said. "Half the staff love her; the other half are afraid of her and think she needs to be sent to the psych ward."

"That surprise you?" Gibbs asked.

"Not really," McGee admitted. "I love her, and even I think she should be under psychiatric observation sometimes."

He again smiled weakly. The pain bled through the mirth and pinched in the corners of his eyes.

"So you're on the mend," Gibbs observed. "Good."

"You notice her math test in the hall?" McGee wondered.

Gibbs nodded, not surprised that his agent was more in tune with the computation feat than the fact that he was standing and walking less than two weeks since a steal projectile tore open the major artery in his heart.

"I picked up on that," Gibbs noted, seeing no reason to comment on the other accomplishment he found more encouraging.

"It was for your benefit rather than mine," McGee replied tiredly. "Or, it was for my benefit so that I know that you know that I know…"

"Yeah, McGee," Gibbs cut him off. "I got that, too. How are you feeling?"

He wanted to say fine. He wanted to say better than he was the day before and like he had turned a corner. All of that was true, but it wasn't what Gibbs was asking. Not exactly. Sure, the boss was interested in those things and wanted that information, too, but he likely already knew all of that from the other updates he received from Ducky, who was a frequent visitor. It surprised McGee a bit that his first guess at who might know how he was fairing wasn't Abby. He was still not as sharp as he would like to be due to the multiple medications he was receiving, but even in his dulled thoughts, he found it odd that Abby hadn't visited. He considered asking Gibbs about her, but he didn't want to sound even more needy and pathetic than he probably looked and knew he felt.

"McGee?" Gibbs prodded noting he had drifted from the conversation. "I asked how you're feeling."

He wrenched his mind back to the present moment then locked eyes with his boss.

"Like I want to know why this happened," he answered hoping he sounded more determined to Gibbs than he did to his own ears.

Gibbs nodded, liking the answer if not the breathless and weak delivery of it. The will behind the wording settled the senior agent's mind more than hearing his subordinate solve a simple math problem. It told him what was going on in his agent's head and how well he was recovering. Despite the family's requests, Gibbs forged forward.

"What do you remember?" Gibbs asked.

"I don't know, Boss," he said. "Penny said I got shot in Afghanistan. I don't even remember going there much less anything that happened when I was there. Not really. I mean, I get little flashes when I concentrate really hard, but my head is so foggy still that I…"

Gibbs sighed but nodded his understanding as a nurse arrived and muttered an apology about having to hook up the IV's again as they were only detached for his short walk. From his lack of protest as she re-inserted the tubes into the ports sunk into the backs of his hand and forearm, the patient was relieved for the return of pain fighting fluids. Gibbs hoped his plans for a subtle question and answer period would not be waylaid by oncoming unconsciousness, yet the sheen of sweat that had formed on McGee's face as he walked down the hall reminded Gibbs that despite the new-found mobility, his agent was still in a precarious condition.

The nurse nodded to him and muttered the words indicating 'drowsy soon' as she passed by.

"If the memories are still in there, you'll find them," Gibbs said knowingly. He'd lost time before due to an injury. His missing days had come back, all in a rush, when he was not expecting it.

"What happened?" McGee asked.

"Can't tell you what I don't know," Gibbs replied. "But even if I knew, you're not on this case. You're on leave until a doctor says you can return and I agree to it."

"Is any of it on video?" he persisted. "If there were surveillance cameras wherever I was, maybe they caught something. You could check the…."

"No," Gibbs said simply, not clarifying if he was answering the inquiry about the evidence or simply refusing the request to watch what might be captured as footage.

"Rachel, uh Dr. Cranston, said there's a chance everything is still in my mind somewhere," McGee said. "I'm trying, Boss."

"I know," Gibbs said. "But maybe you should concentrate on healing from surgery first. You took a serious hit, Tim. Getting better is more important than remembering a few lost days."

"That's what my mother says," McGee replied.

"Smart woman—listen to her," Gibbs noted as he casually pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down. His plan was to ease into a conversation and hope that his agent was too doped up on painkillers to notice the mild interrogation. "I was talking to your mom the other day about you. She seems concerned that having a badge has damaged your moral compass and made you an unscrupulous hacker."

McGee sighed and fought the urge to laugh as the pain in his chest pinched sharply. He closed his eyes to block out the ache as he shook his head.

"Yeah, I told her that apparently happened when you were at one of your colleges," Gibbs said assuredly. "You came to NCIS knowing how to invade a person's privacy using a keyboard. You obviously learned all those skills somewhere else because I know I didn't teach you any of that and neither did DiNozzo."

McGee opened his eyes and looked at Gibbs with glazed eyes and a suspicious expression. It was unclear what caused it: the hazy descending on his brain, the fact Gibbs had spoken more than two sentences in a row or that the man was being jocular and borderline jovial.

"She's worried I'm a cyber-criminal?" McGee asked as his lid grew heavier. "Sounds more like something Sarah would say. Actually, it is something Sarah says."

"Like mother like daughter, I guess," Gibbs offered. "Of course, your mom's known you longer than anyone so she might have some insight. You know what I didn't know? I didn't realize how long you've known Admiral Porter. You met him when you were kid, huh?"

McGee blinked as he tried to focus on the man's words. They seemed to come from a long away off but McGee fought the urge to drift away. Gibbs was talking—something the man did rarely. Listening seemed important.

"Do you remember when you met him?" Gibbs asked, leaning forward as he locked eyes with McGee.

"Yeah," McGee replied. "Spring that we moved to California; I was 7-finally old enough to play Little League."

"So spring of 1986?" Gibbs prompted and received a slight head nod. "You took a Tiger Cruise that year in the fall, didn't you? Just after your 8th birthday, right?"

"Boss?" McGee questioned as an uneasy feeling, one that pushed through the curtain of numbness the painkillers draped over him.

"Something bothered you about that cruise," Gibbs said confidently and understandingly. "Was Porter there? Did you see him at all during that weekend?"

"Yes," McGee sighed deeply as his lids drooped more. "Boss, I don't talk about … It was…."

"Did something bad happen on that cruise, Tim?" he asked with a soft intensity.

"Yes," he said as tired expression flashed a shadow of fear. "Please, don't."

"I know it's something you never talk about—something that made you stop talking altogether for a while," Gibbs continued.

The heart monitor, the one linked to the clip on his finger, started to blip faster despite the patient growing more and more drowsy. Gibbs cut his eyes briefly but forged ahead when McGee did not respond despite his eyes remaining open slightly.

"Tim, do you trust me?" Gibbs asked.

"Of course," he replied as he fought to keep his eyes focused.

"Tell me what happened," Gibbs coaxed.

"No," McGee said quietly and slowly as he felt the tug of sleep. "Don't want to... think about it."

"I know, but you need to tell me, McGee," Gibbs said. "I need to know. Did something happen to you?"

"My fault," McGee muttered as the medication began to pull him under.

"No, it wasn't," Gibbs encouraged. "Whatever it was that got NIS's attention, wasn't your fault."

McGee's droopy eyes opened wide briefly as a look or confusion then relief washed over his features.

"You mean... the file," McGee sighed with either exhaustion or relief. "Looked at it… in Norfolk… No one believed us."

Gibbs clenched his jaw as his agent's eyes closed and his features went slack. His breathing was slow but regular as he succumbed to oblivion. Gibbs scrubbed his hands over his face then roughly stroked his chin. He then looked at his watch and decided there was enough time left in the regular workday to make a few calls and still find people at their desks. He pulled out his phone and dialed.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Gibbs' Basement_**

There were several long planks of wood laid out on the sawhorses and a variety of tools resting on them. The psychiatrist in Cranston briefly considered profiling the scene but found it difficult. She had been to Gibbs' subterranean lair before; she found that even now, years after that first visit, her eyes were still occasional drawn to the spot where the man who murdered her baby sister perished. Kate had been on Cranston's mind a great deal in the last week, ever since another to the team nearly met the same fate from a bullet. She kept reminding herself that this time the outcome would be different and her own role with the team was professional not personal.

"So you're telling me that you've now interrogated Carol McGee and Tim," she surmised after listening to Gibbs' clipped summation of his efforts. "That's wonderfully thorough and moderately insensitive even for you."

"I spoke to them," Gibbs said plainly. "I just asked a few questions. There was no interrogating."

"You went on a fishing expedition," Cranston asserted. "That's a metaphor you might want to keep in mind as we keep talking, particularly when I start probing about your fixation with a certain admiral. Your team and your director are concerned about you, Captain Ahab."

"I'm a Marine, not a sailor," Gibbs said as he emptied screws from an old jam jar and dribbled a finger of Bourbon into it for her. He offered her a flat stare as he handed the drink to her.

"Good point," Cranston noted as she took a sip while Gibbs filled his own mug next. "As is this, a white whale may be elusive rather than imaginary. So, you said you were getting a robust four hours of sleep. Apparently your determination isn't getting in the way of your normal schedule. I understand that you were on a video conference with Agent McGee when he was shot. You saw it happen."

"Along with Vance," Gibbs replied. "Are you field stripping his sleep patterns and lines of inquiry, too?"

"In fact, I did," she nodded. "He actually asked that I do my assessment of him first. Over all, NCIS personnel are dealing with what's happened remarkably well, considering how completely dysfunctional you all can be. Don't worry, Gibbs. I'm not going to put a black mark on your record so that you have to stop looking into whatever your famous gut tells you is awry."

He snorted his disinterest. No remark in a report would stop him from finding the answers he sought. It might cause a delay—much like the pointless meandering of this informal evaluation—but it would not derail his plans to find the missing pieces to this puzzle.

"How's Abby doing, in your opinion?" Gibbs inquired. "In your professional opinion."

He hadn't spent much time with their forensic tech in recent days. He had gone to see her in her lab a few times, but without any new evidence or breakthroughs to provide him, there was little reason to do so. He dropped in twice to just check on her and found her to be subdued but coping well. She always took harm to the team hard and whether he understood it or not, there was a different type of bond between his tech savvy agent and his forensic specialist. They spoke the same language, saw the world as a series of equations and chemical compounds and there was that odd, unspoken affection both held for each other they repressed or denied (depending on the situation). He was fine with that. It kept them focused on their work and didn't enter the tenuous and messy arena of office romance. He knew from personal experience how complicated those entanglements could get.

"I've talked to her three times," Cranston said. "Once as a preliminary discussion; once as follow up and once when she called me. As Tim has remained mostly stable, she's shifted her worry to his memory loss and what it might mean for his recovery. I couldn't tell her much about my dealings with that, but I think their unique symbiotic relationship will prove helpful for both of them when he's able to interact with his visitors more. Bottom line: As he improves, she will continue to rebound as well."

Gibbs nodded, glad to hear the assessment as it mirrored his own thoughts.

"She told me she was sleeping finally," Gibbs said. "Something about changing her arrangement, whatever that meant."

"Her coffin-bed," Cranston revealed, feeling it was not a breach of protocol to do so as she overheard the discussion in the lab between Abby and Dr. Mallard. "This latest brush with nearly losing someone she cares about had her viewing her normal bed as less than comforting. She apparently had a sleepover on Agent DiNozzo's couch recently and was able to rest better with that set up. So she has temporarily relocated to her own couch for the time being."

Gibbs nodded. He was never one to judge anyone's sleeping arrangements. He slept on his couch mostly having never been able to rest well in the room where he and Shannon had once slept. He hadn't even opened the door to Kelly's room in 15 years. His other wives all had homes of their own where he temporarily relocated while the unions were on good footing. Once they fell into decline, he had always returned to the one place he thought of as home, the place that held his most cherished memories and ghosts of his lost girls.

"You didn't call me here to talk about Abby's sleeping patterns or even to let me ask about yours," Cranston said. "I think I've done enough rambling for you to hit me with whatever question is really on your mind, Gibbs."

He nodded, appreciating her ability to read the situation and her willingness to assist. He was counting on her knowledge of people and her proficiency in profiling to help him understand what he now knew. He hoped what he learned from her would be a surprise rather than a confirmation of the fears that were slowly simmering his gut.

"You've had access to my team's full psych profiles, their entire history, and their full background investigations," Gibbs said.

A light of comprehension ignited behind Cranston's eyes a she nodded her comprehension.

"And because it is privileged and private information, you haven't," she nodded. "I thought you preferred to judge your team on their performance rather than someone else's psycho-babble opinion of their history."

"This isn't about performance," he said. "This is about history. Something happened to McGee when he was a child. I think it might be relevant again."

Cranston's face froze in a half pucker, one that told Gibbs she did not believe him entirely but also that she knew something. He sighed and shrugged.

"Doc, I'm conducting an investigation into an attack that left three Marines dead and nearly killed one of my agents," he replied. "I'm not on a witch hunt, and I'm not looking to blame someone simply because I was 10,000 mile away when I saw what happened but couldn't help. I investigate crimes for a living. I know what I'm doing. I wouldn't ask about this if it wasn't necessary."

She inhaled slowly through her nose, keeping her lips pressed tightly as she composed her words carefully. She was walking a desperately thin line between keeping her required confidentiality and providing information that might be helpful (although no amount of logic in her mind could figure how how). With anyone else, she would be turning the discussion around and focusing on the incessant need to dig into a past event that had no apparent correlation to the event that was troubling the man in the present day.

But this was Gibbs.

Despite the Moby Dick fears some of his team had been sending up, Cranston knew he did not go idly fishing in the hopes of finding solace or elusive answers. There was evidently a fish of indeterminate size tugging on his line.

"The crime you are investigating occurred recently," she said. "What could an incident from the 1980s have to do with it?"

Gibbs took in her words with carefully tuned ears. They were confirming he was trawling in the right area. There was something in the past; its relevance was still unclear, but there was definitely something under the surface.

"Tell me what the incident in '86 is, and I'll tell you its significance," he countered.

Cranston wagged her finger at him, letting him know she was not going to lay bare all she knew. She couldn't. She was bound by professional ethics and personal ones as well.

"It's not my place to tell you what I know about Agent McGee," she informed him. "Besides, you've known him for much longer than I have. He respects you greatly, in a way that is analogous to the sort of worship young children have for superheroes. Keeping secrets from you seems out of character for him where you are concerned."

Gibbs scoffed. Of all of his team, McGee was actually the most proficient at keeping secrets. It wasn't that Gibbs was often in the dark that the younger agent had them; what he was good at was keeping the precise details of them closely held. That was, Gibbs knew, a lesson taught by his father (whether intentional or other incidental). When you were convinced the rest of the world thought you didn't matter, there was no reason to share or publicize what you knew or who you were.

From his novel writing to the individuals in his family, McGee kept most of who he was hidden. Gibbs now feared that there was yet another reason for that, a darker and more hurtful cause that was now struggling to get into the light.

"Of all the members of my team, McGee tends to be the one that surprises me," Gibbs admitted. "A guy like me has a harder time figuring out someone like him. He's not a solider or sailor, he just grew up around them. He's not a cop by nature—he learned to be one from a book. He's a rule follower, unless it involves his damn keyboard, and then all bets are off."

Cranston chuckled as she nodded.

"Your genius Boy Scout can miss the obvious clue sitting right in front of him and be innocently deceptive while telling you the truth," Cranston said and received a curt nod from Gibbs. "I know you don't put much stock in personality types, but Tim is what is classified as an ISFJ. They're known as the defenders, and they are a contradiction, even to professionals who deal with personality typing. They are highly analytical with an marked creative side. Despite being introverts, they develop exceptional people skills and close relationships. They tend to be more than the sum of their parts; although, their humble traits tend to leave them overlooked or make them easy marks to be taken advantage of, but that rarely dampens their dedication to their duty. A literary and pop culture reference that fits is Sherlock Holmes' partner Dr. Watson. But you already knew all of that about Tim before I started talking, so tell me: What does your experience and your gut tell you?"

Gibbs scoffed. That was what bothered him. Until Gibbs first heard then name Porter, nothing in McGee's behavior ever once raised a single flag that there might be a terrible secret in his past. Gibbs had known about his agent's father, who the man was and his reputation, before he ever requested McGee join his team. Long ago, when Gibbs did an undercover stint as a computer tech (something he knew his team still found astounding), he learned the value of information technology (if not the precise inner workings or how to use most of it). So when Tony crossed paths with a so-called "computer geek with a badge" during a case out of Norfolk, Gibbs was intrigued. He assessed what the young probationary agent was able to do to assist Tony and then looked into the kid's background.

He was not surprised by the agent's introverted nature, his proclivity toward self-doubt, his over-reliance on technology that sometimes got in the way of his instincts. Each of those traits remained and made appearances depending on the situation. Still, none of that ever made Gibbs think McGee might harbor horrible memories of being on the other side of an NIS investigation.

Cranston watched Gibbs wrestle with his questions and his doubt. And something more. She knew Gibbs felt a kinship (unspoken to be sure) to his team; they were the substitute for the family he lost. The concern she was reading on his face was one that was mostly foreign to the man: fear. He was fighting with a bone-deep worry that someone had hurt a member of his family in a way that couldn't be healed by stitches or medicine. That realization told her what he was thinking. She knew of no way easy or direct way to put him on the right track in his search for answers without violating her oath.

But she knew she needed to try and could do it by helping him refine his inquiry.

"Do you know why Tim joined NCIS?" she asked as she picked up a chisel from the table along the wall and examined it.

"He wanted to," Gibbs replied with a shrug.

The answer was weak but true, he knew. He didn't know the actual reason and never thought to ask. Tony had a theory that involved McGee's father—that taking a job that was about investigating Navy personnel and their wrongdoings was a geek's revenge or rebellion against the stern Navy man, but that never fit for Gibbs. McGee wasn't prone to that type of tantrum, and there wasn't a vindictive bone in the younger agent's body.

"Something inspired him," she elaborated. "Of course, when most little boys decide they want to be crime fighters, they say they want to be an FBI agent or a big city cop. No offense to the Navy, but unless one of your parents is an NCIS agent, it isn't a job that gets a lot of press coverage or hero worship."

Gibbs nodded. He knew from McGee's sister long ago that being an NCIS investigator had always been her brother's dream. Gibbs did not think much of the statement at the time, but she had seemed firm that it was NCIS and not just any Federal law enforcement that had been her older brother's plan.

Cranston saw a dawning of comprehension on Gibbs' face as she continued.

"Your agent decided when he was very young that this was specifically what he wanted to do," she said with an encouraging nod. "On the surface, it was a most unlikely choice for him. He excelled, staggeringly, at academics. He skipped a couple grades and was in grad school by the time most students are just declaring their majors."

Gibbs knew all of this from the McGee's general personnel file. Gibbs, himself, did not place too much value on education accolades. Yes, an education was important, but knowledge could take many forms and come from many areas. He was not a fool. He did not mistake qualifications for competency but continued to listen as Cranston proceeded.

"He got his degrees from some of the top schools in the country and received plenty of job offers, but he turned them all down," she said, again telling Gibbs what he already knew. "He wanted NCIS and NCIS only. He was considered a fool for doing that, for wasting his talents and opportunities, but he was always very open about his entire academic career being strategically tailored to be an NCIS agent."

"I already know all this, Doc," Gibbs said testily.

What she was and wasn't saying, painted a picture he expected. He found it reasonable and credible. At some point in his childhood, McGee had made a decision to be the one who solved crimes for the Navy and got justice for victims. That suddenly made Gibbs' interest in the missing NIS file deepened. The detail he had chastised Tony for mentioning and the mysterious file number he nearly scolded Bishop for spending time unearthing now seemed central to the answers he sought.

What that file might contain was seriously concerning Gibbs. He was bothered by the possibility that he had missed something obvious in his agent all this time. He was equally bothered that someone as inept at willful deception toward those he considered friends as McGee had managed to hide childhood victimization from Gibbs so successfully.

It didn't fit with what Gibbs knew and believed—hell, felt even—about his agent. McGee was honest to a fault (and often to his own detriment). That he had spent nearly his entire career hiding something ugly from his boss didn't sit any better in Gibbs' gut than the possibility of what the secret McGee held might be. Realizing Cranston wouldn't and couldn't give him straight answers, he attacked the problem obliquely.

"Molestation victims don't usually grow up to good investigators," Gibbs asserted.

"No, they do not," she shook her head in agreement. "Their own experiences can be valuable in understanding a crime victim's mindset, but often it is as much a detriment. You've supervised Agent McGee for nearly 11 years. Is he a good investigator?"

Gibbs nodded.

"Is he an exception?" he asked boldly and felt a knot of dread in his chest as he pause for the answer.

"I think everyone on your team is exceptional," Cranston smiled evasively then caught his flat stare. "Tim is a lot of things, but victim is not a word I would use, unless it is in reference to Agent DiNozzo's pranks. Even then, I think the word target is actually more accurate than victim."

Gibbs felt himself release a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding. For a variety of reasons, none of which he wanted to wax poetic about with a shrink, he felt the heaviness of regret and sorrow lift from his shoulders. That reprieve did not last long as a new tonnage of questions then took their place.

"This doesn't add up, Doc," Gibbs said impatiently. "I know McGee saw a therapist after a Tiger Cruise when was a child. I know Paul Porter was on that cruise and began to show an interest in Tim after it. I hear what you're not saying, but I'm also seeing vague outlines of a picture my 20 years of investigating crime can't ignore."

She nodded as her face twisted in mutual disgust. She understood precisely what sort of picture he meant—the kind that made a righteous man believe in a kind evil that stole a child's innocence without remorse or regret. Sensing there was no way to help while maintaining her professional neutrality, she took a page from Gibbs' own book. Whether he had a rule that covered this or not, she did not know. She sighed deeply as she made up her mind about what she could divulge without harming the man they were discussing.

"If you keep digging, you'll see that the possibility that is worrying you right now is not what happened," she replied. "I'm sorry, Gibbs. I know you don't like my answers any more than you want my apology, but I can't say much more other than assuring you Tim is not that sort of victim. You're thinking in terms of sexual abuse. I can safely steer you away from that. I will say this: You're digging into a weekend at sea from many years ago. I can't discuss anything Tim has ever divulged in his background investigations regarding that cruise without receiving permission from him first. As you know about that cruise independently from me, there is nothing preventing you from asking Tim directly about it when he is well enough to have that kind of discussion. I suspect if you do ask, he might give you some answers; although, I don't think you will find them solid or helpful because he still has more questions than answers."

Gibbs scowled. He wasn't sure what the hell most of that meant other than Porter (or anyone else) didn't violate McGee as a child. While Gibbs found relief in that knowledge, it did not answer the nagging suspicion he had about Porter or the existence of a NIS file naming McGee for some unknown reason.

"Don't get evasive with me on this, Rachel," Gibbs growled. "I need to know about an NIS file that was opened in 1986 and has since gone missing that involves McGee and a Tiger Cruise."

She shook her head firmly.

"All I can say is that weekend was a seminal event in Agent McGee's life in that it planted the seed for why he wanted to be an NCIS agent… or at that time an NIS Agent," she said. "As I said, you should ask him to elaborate."

Gibbs snorted. Whether it was the medication, more blank spots due to trauma, or a conscious effort on McGee's part, he hadn't told Gibbs anything when he did ask.

Well, not much of anything, Gibbs realized as he reconsidered their brief talk. Two statements suddenly stood out and perked his investigative senses once again.

" _They didn't believe_ _us_ ," Gibbs repeated the statement of his agent. He narrowed his eyes shrewdly. "He said he didn't want to talk about it and that they didn't believe _us_."

Cranston grinned encouragingly as she shrugged.

"Sounds like you've got some more digging to do," Cranston nodded with a knowing smile as she sipped on her glass again.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	14. Chapter 14

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Vance's Office_**

The director stood behind his desk focusing the full weight of his office and title at the only other occupant in the room. It wasn't so much that he hoped to intimidate the man—indeed, very little made the former sniper ever blink. Still, Vance felt he needed to apply the pressure to maintain control of his leading team (or more accurately, that team's leader—at least as much as Gibbs could be controlled). Vance also wanted to get himself on-board; he wasn't in full agreement with the orders he had been given either, but he kept that part of out of his dissertation to Gibbs.

When Vance paused at the end of his discourse, Gibbs scoffed and shook his head. A disbelieving, fed up grin tugged painfully at the corners of his mouth as his director finished his edict on redirecting the team to domestic matters. It was apparent the ruling to cease looking into the Afghanistan incident had come down from Sec Nav (likely originating from Sec Def) and was politically motivated. In the end, as far as Sec Nav was concerned, the security leak investigation ended when a new contractor began checking the background on all foreign nationals working on military bases; the assault was now considered a closed matter as the shooters were dead. NCIS was being instructed to close the book and move on.

Gibbs, however, was certain there was another chapter (perhaps several more) still to come.

"We don't have all the answers yet, Leon," Gibbs said. "I don't think we've got even half of them. We've got a pile of questions still; we can't walk away from that. We still don't know why these guys started shooting."

"Intel states they were Taliban sympathizers," Vance said. "They want us dead. They showed up with weapons. No more mystery."

"Yeah, well, they may recycle every weapon they get their hands on, but one of those guns belonged to a former DC cop who was under investigation in connection with two drug related shootings here in DC before he died," Gibbs reminded him. "We both know a 9 mil is hardly the weapon of choice for a terrorist."

A muscle in Vance's jaw bunched. He shared Gibbs' frustration with the edict from on high; he also had a lot of questions still unanswered, but his motivation was not the same as Gibbs. Sure, he wanted to know who hired the shooters and why, but he also knew there were more pressing matters closer to home. He didn't have time for Gibbs' gut dragging his major case response team on a trek into the cobweb strewn past of the agency based on a hunch that a flag officer had a secret he wanted kept and it got mixed in with the chaos of the assault on the base in Afghanistan.

"Gibbs, I've got fresh cases from the present that need closing," Vance scowled. "You want me to allocate _my_ major case response team to dig into something that wasn't considered a case from how many years ago? And we're supposed to do this based on your gut feeling that it's relevant to what happened in another country decades later? No one will give odds that you're right, but even if you were, what are the chances anyone involved all those years ago can be found and identified or even remembers anything useful?"

"Won't know 'til we look," Gibbs said as he turned to walk out of the office. "Oh, and I can answer a couple of your questions already. I've got an agent who was somehow involved, know right where he is every minute of the day even, and I've got another person of interest I can question as well."

"A person of interest for what?" Vance demanded.

"Let you know when I have that answer," Gibbs replied.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Autopsy Suite_**

The polished, metallic doors slid open with a hushed hiss. Bishop looked toward the desk against the wall and located Ducky. He was sitting pensively staring at the wall. He turned at the sound of the doors closing and met her with troubled eyes. She was not sure how to take the expression. He had recently summoned her to see him following the completion of a review she asked him to do—the psychological kind rather than the physiological.

"Eleanor," he nodded in her direction.

"Ducky," she replied. "Were you able to learn anything of value? I reviewed the video and the transcripts, but all I got was what I expected to see. If I hadn't already known who the man was, I wouldn't have picked Admiral Porter out as anyone who was acting suspiciously in any of the footage."

"Is that so?" he remarked with a hint of surprise. "Did you review all of the footage?"

He gestured to his computer screen, which held the files she zipped and emailed to him a few days prior when she reached out for his assistance. She was looking for a critical and skilled eye who was not immersed in the investigation (both the one the agency sanctioned and the one Gibbs appeared to be conducting off the books) so that he would not be jaded or influenced by anything other than what he heard or saw in the recordings.

"Sure," she said then shrugged. "I watched the parts with anyone wearing a Navy uniform that had admiral insignia. I didn't see the point in watching all of it. Anything that didn't have Porter in it didn't seem relevant... and kind of intrusive."

Ducky huffed slightly as he shook his head in a way she could not read. He did not seem disappointed or like he was scolding. He appeared more like someone who has had a long held belief debunked but that he was not overly surprised to learn that truth.

"What did I miss?" Bishop asked with worry.

"Half of the story," Ducky replied. "I watched all of the footage you supplied and read the transcripts. I must say I felt terribly like a voyeur infringing upon the McGee family at such a private and painful time."

"I know," she sighed hung her head. "This was a private funeral, and Tim didn't want any of us there so we didn't go, but…"

"On the contrary," Ducky corrected her. "He would have welcomed a friendly face. It was his father's decree that kept the funeral to just a select few. The clandestine recordings picked up both Timothy and his sister both mention multiple times to each other how they would have preferred if the funeral could have been less structured and restricted. Neither appears to have been enamored with most of those who were present; interestingly, Sarah seemed the more angry of the two."

Bishop cocked her head to the side in surprise. Anger was not generally a trait she saw from her teammate so Ducky's expectation of it was confusing.

"Well, Tony tells me McGee's sister can be a bit hot headed," Bishop noted. "I know she was too emotional to be in his room until recently. Stands to reason if she didn't want a lot of formality at the funeral, she wouldn't be quiet about that. It's not really Tim's way to spout off about anything that makes him mad… unless it's Tony and even then it's more about eye rolling and grinding his teeth."

Ducky nodded, finding that to be a reasonable observation. The elder of the McGee children did have a more balanced temperament; however, the evidence from the video demonstrated he did not feel very differently from his sister.

"Sarah was actually rather quiet in her interactions with the other mourners, relying heavily on her brother to be the family ambassador in speaking to the callers at the wake and later in the receiving line beside their mother after the service," Ducky said, feeling a pang of sadness and respect for his younger colleague for the strength and dignity he displayed during both. "Her objections were mostly in the form of some severe cutting glances and the occasional frustrated sigh, which usually resulted in an indecipherable whispered comment from her brother which appeared to comfort and stabilize her mood."

Bishop nodded and she slouched with disappointment. She had hoped the secret NSA footage from Admiral McGee's wake and funeral would help shed some light on the Porter-McGee connection as the questionable admiral had been in attendance at both.

"So if you didn't find anything, why do you look so disappointed, and why did you call me to talk about this?" she wondered.

"I suppose my mood, possibly even my faith, in our nation has received a drubbing at the very existence of this footage," he revealed. "Eleanor, this was a private family gathering to bury a loved one. Regardless of his lofty career accomplishments, John McGee was a man with a family who needed to grieve his passing. What possibly interest could the National Security Agency have when he no longer could be of service to his country? I am left to wonder if they suspect someone who was in attendance of being a threat to this nation. Considering the list of invited mourners in attendance, my sense of security has been, at the very least, bruised."

She sighed and reminded herself that, despite working for an agency that did clandestine operations and a military past of his own, Ducky was still someone who believed in righteousness and the firm rule of law. She did as well, but having worked at the NSA, she also knew there were instances when their scope was interpreted and expanded as needs dictated. The precisely motivation behind the surveillance at the funeral she did not know. However, the fact that she was able to get copies of the material boded well that Ducky's fears of a traitor in the highest echelons of the military and the government were unfounded. She explained as much to him, but that did not seem to lesson his fears.

"That somehow makes it worse," he replied sourly. "Spying on innocent citizens is beneath the dignity of a nation founded on the principle of freedom. Or should I say, it ought to be. We have traveled down a rabbit's hole with our ethics and justifications in recent years—and much of that journey was our choice rather than a consequence of actions beyond our control."

Bishop hung her head feeling chastised on behalf of her former agency. She understood why they did what they did, but she also saw the shadier side of their actions, the side that was stoking the mild medical examiner's ire.

"I know, but that's not why I went looking for this," she said as she began to regret roping him into this. "Sorry, Ducky. I just thought since Gibbs is laser focused on Admiral Porter this might help. I didn't know if I could find something in the footage that would give him a new avenue to explore. I don't even know what I was hoping to find; I just hoped there would be something."

"Well, there certainly was," Ducky said as his demeanor shifted from the disgust with his nation's eavesdropping proclivities to his assessment of what he saw.

"What?" she asked with wide eyes as her interest was again piqued.

"Admiral Porter," Ducky said firmly. "I suspect I will speak with Jethro about this myself soon enough, but I can tell you that from what I saw, the admiral does have a definite interest in the McGee family—and in Timothy most of all. He made it a point on three occasions to engage him in conversation; two other times he brought up Timothy's name when talking to others."

"He did?" Bishop blinked. "I know he saw Tim at the wake and the funeral—I watched those parts. I didn't see anything of value in the few moments they spoke."

Ducky wagged his finger at her and offered a mild scolding about rushing through a job or just skimming the surface to look for obvious clues. He had conducted a thorough examination—an autopsy of sorts—of all the footage and felt he had a firm grasp on the relationship between McGee and Porter.

"While Timothy may have been estranged from or intimidated by his father at times, it was the man's importance to him and his overall demeanor that resulted in those reactions rather than his rank or chosen profession," Ducky pontificated. "From what I saw and heard, Timothy feels no such inferiority or sullenness around Admiral Porter. It was apparent to me that if anything, Timothy thinks very little of that man; his reaction tells me he considers Porter a nuisance and someone whose presence he suffers through with good graces merely for the sake of displaying manners. There is no fear of Porter; no intimidation by him; no sense of power being exerted or influence from Porter over Timothy. There could be some resentment toward the man on Timothy's part, but to say that with certainty would be reading too much into their limited discussions to be a credible finding."

"So you think there's bad blood between them?" Bishop wondered.

"Not precisely," Ducky shook his head. "Admiral Porter is a man who needs to be liked and does so by a grand show of impressiveness. He is someone who is politically savvy and knows how to work a room; however, around Timothy he loses much of that luster and command. He becomes slightly unctuous and appears to be ignorant at how ineffective he is at engaging Timothy in a conversation. I could not fathom the reason for the change in the man's personality around Timothy other than to suspect that it is entirely purposeful—like he is trying very hard to remain in Timothy's good graces."

Bishop cocked her eyebrow up at that. McGee was easily the most well-mannered agent she had met at NCIS (or any other Federal law enforcement agency for that matter). He was generally quiet and a bit socially awkward at times, but he was undeniably a gentleman with an even temper. Tony often liked to chide him for his Boy Scout ways, and Bishop saw no reason to find that description inaccurate. How anyone could fear McGee or feel the need to walk on eggshells in his presence baffled her and she said so.

"I have watched your partner mature through his probationary agent days to his more seasoned capabilities," Ducky offered. "He is not an overtly forceful personality, but he is also not quite the feeble soul many mistake him for being. He is a reticent and humble personality, but he is not weak-willed by any stretch of the imagination. I suspect Admiral Porter knows this; after all, he has known Timothy for most of his life. I cannot hazard a guess for why the man displays the caution coupled with fascination for Timothy beyond my theory that it is paranoia. I cannot give that theory much weight, however, as I have no evidence to do so. Still, the behavior is undeniable when the two interact. If pressed, I would guess that he fears Timothy or more precisely something Timothy knows. For his part, our friend and colleague does not seem to notice this deference and fear that Admiral Porter shows him. To the contrary, Timothy only seems to react to the ingratiating behavior with restrained patience, as though he cannot wait for the man to leave but is too polite to force that departure."

Bishop filtered this offering thorough what she knew of the case thus far and found it simply left the waters muddy. The various tentacles of the investigation were little more than a tangled mess of threads that did not seem to intersect in any place or time beyond several hours off the coast of Afghanistan.

"So Tim's not afraid of Porter; he's just annoyed by him?" she surmised.

"My thoughts precisely," Ducky said. "Whatever it is Admiral Porter fears from him, Timothy has no clue about it."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Johns Hopkins Hospital_**

Tony stood beside McGee's bed and was pleased to see the oxygen cannula that had previously trailed from his nose to the tanks in the room was missing. So were many of the other tubes that once were embedded in the man's arms. Only two remained. If the bruising evident on McGee's skin was any indication, the others had departed in the last 48 hours, leaving their telltale black, blue and somewhat green footprints in their wake. Adding to the overall appearance of someone no longer at Death's Door was McGee's position in the bed. He was sitting up and his eyes were open.

Not that Tony expected that to last long as a nurse, who left as he entered, mentioned something about it being time for the next dose. Tony's eyes followed her tight and well-shaped posterior until she disappeared. He then nodded while giving the woman an average rating on his internal measurement scale.

"No comments?" McGee noted, his voice still soft and thin in spots but definitely more active than their last discussion. "No attempts to flirt?"

"With her or you?" Tony asked. "Not really feeling an attraction to either of you actually. Which, now that you mention it, is strange—the part where I don't turn on the DiNozzo charm on her. You, I'd never hit on; not my type, McQueen."

"Are you sick or dying?" McGee asked bluntly.

He found the quick and sharp cut of Tony's eyes after his question oddly reassuring. Whether that was a vote of confidence in Tony's health or a brief blip of normal on his own off-kilter world, he wasn't sure. He looked to Tony for an answer.

"Between you and me, I don't know what's going on, McGee," Tony confessed as he offered a wide grin. "Ever since you took up residence here, I've got this whole crazy cougar thing going on. I mean, Dr. Westlake, _Rrrwrrr_ … Holy platinum hottie, McPatient. Then there's your mom. I mean: Wow! And tell me, since when do you get a hot mom?"

McGee clenched his jaw and heard as much as felt his blood pressure rise slightly. The rapid flutter in his chest made his ears ring a bit but apparently was not sufficient to draw the attention of the nurse who breezed in unannounced and began hooking up a new bag to his IV port.

"Stop," McGee warned Tony in a voice that wasn't nearly as commanding as he hoped. "And if you can't, at least stop looking at my mother. Go look at Geraldine in Human Resources. She has a thing for you anyway."

"Gerri in HR?" Tony wrinkled his face in disagreement. "The mousy-brown-going gray-haired one with the lisp? That's not a cougar. That's an old jackal. Seriously, McGee, how do you have a hot mom and I didn't know it? It's like your sister; she's cute, too. I'm back to thinking you're adopted by the way."

"We are not having this conversation," McGee shook his head as he grumbled.

"And even though Carol is quite the fetching beauty, she also does mom things," Tony grinned in a giddy fashion. "Not like a naughty mom from a pay-per-view movie, but honest to goodness comforting and maternal things. Did you know she brought us cookies in the squad room yesterday afternoon? They were so good she even made Vance smile. She didn't go to a bakery and buy them. She made them herself. "

McGee scowled at the near-drooling adulation his mother was receiving. He did not disagree with Tony's assessment that his mother was priceless. McGee might even go as far as saying she was practically perfect. He thought she was pretty as well, but she was foremost his mother. However, Tony's starry-eyed adulation continued.

"My mother was great, but homemade cookies were not part of her repertoire," Tony continued. "Know what your mom does that I love? She calls me _Anthony_."

"It's your name," McGee pointed out flatly but was ignored as his annoyance grew.

"When she says it, she gives me this bit of a scolding and smirking look," he said as his smile deepened and grew sheepish. "Like if i was Gibbs there in that moment, he'd be smacking my head."

"I'm thinking he needs to he hit you harder," McGee said rolling his eyes.

"You know, I think her approach is more effective," Tony replied.

"Why are you here?" he grumbled. "What do you want? And don't say my mother."

"Hey, watch your mouth, McDirty Mind," Tony scolded.

He grinned in an impish way that raised red blooms of anger in McGee's cheeks. Tony was there, initially, to check on his partner and assess if he was ready to be questioned. The doctor said he was well enough to begin answering some questions; however, Westlake did warn that he was still on sufficiently high doses of medication that a lucid answer might be difficult to get at all times. Despite the firmness of his current outburst, Tony could tell from the patient's eyes and slowed speech that he was dealing with a slightly doped (soon to be sedated) McGee. Therefore, Tony opted to put off the questioning for another day. With Vance pushing to consider their work done on this one, it was doubtful anything McGee could tell him about Afghanistan (assuming he remembered any of it) was vital. Still, a lack of pointed questioning did not mean the agent was going to let McGee's snappishness regarding his mother go unchecked.

"All I'm saying is I've developed a deep appreciation for Carol," Tony continued. "You should be flattered, Tim. I think she's great. I also think she needs to visit you more, and by that, I mean come to the office, like around my birthday. You could mention to her when it is and suggest that she bring me cookies or something. Think she would do that?"

"I don't know, Tony," McGee said shortly. "I guess that depends on what her _actual_ son tells her about how you treat him usually."

Tony blanched at the veiled threat.

"Ouch," he winced. "Your injury made you mean, you know that? You used to be nice, McGee. Now, you're sour, and not like a Sour Patch Kid candy either—you know, they're sour but you kind of crave them."

"Tony, go eat lunch," McGee suggested. "Your blood sugar must be getting low."

"I am feeling a bit snack'ish," he noted. "Maybe I'll call Carol and ask her if she wants to get a late lunch or an early dinner. It's good for her spend time away from this place—good for you too. I mean, who wants their mom hovering around? Although, I could handle your mom hovering around me."

"Stop talking," McGee groaned. "Stop looking at and thinking about my mother. I can't believe I'm going to say this to you: She's too old for you. Go find a nurse trainee."

Tony inhaled deeply as he ignored the jab and the order that came with it. He was feeling lightheaded in a good and giddy way. His partner was truly on the mend. The case was, well, not entirely solved, but the security threat aspect was closed. Vance was happy, or what passed for happy from him. And Carol was… nearby and probably feeling peckish and in need of a meal companion.

"There is something uniquely enticing about an attractive and mature woman," Tony said wistfully as he stroked his chin at the thought.

The absurdness of hearing that from Tony struck McGee as hilarious (or maybe it was the fog descending on his brain from the new IV bag the nurse recently hooked up for him). Either way, McGee began to chuckle but stopped abruptly. The humor of the moment turned into a painful gasping cough that let him know frivolity was still a bad idea.

"Sorry about that," Tony said with genuine remorse as he placed a calming hand on McGee's shoulder. "Guess you're still in some pain, huh? Just take it easy. I know how it feels to get shot. Remember when Ziva and I were stuck in that container at the Navy Yard and those Senegalese counterfeiters trapped us?"

McGee regained his breath and fixed his slow to react eyes on his visitor as a look of drugged confusion washed over his features.

"You weren't shot," he asserted groggily.

"Uh, yeah, I was," Tony scoffed. "I had to wear a sling afterward and everything."

"Ziva said a bullet hit some wood on a pallet, and you got cut by it," McGee insisted in a wheezing voice. "You were scraped by a big splinter. It's not the same."

Tony's initial instinct was to agree and let his partner settle, but then he recalled their last conversation—the part McGee participated in. The guy didn't want to be coddled. In fact, acquiescing and showing support seemed to increase his worries, which meant only one course was the truly helpful one. McGee needed normal, and normal between those in the McNozzo partnership was anything but coddling and kind. Tony grinned slightly as he proceeded.

"Oh, so this is a competition?" he questioned. "You think this little medical foray of yours makes you the tough one? Okay, McStitches, top this: I survived the Plague."

"The bug had a suicide gene," McGee countered. "It was a weak strain."

"That apparently had mental health issues," Tony muttered before forging onward. "It was still the pneumonic plague. Fine, a virulent disease that killed half of Europe isn't enough. Well, when we were in Somalia, I got shot up with a dangerous and untested nerve agent that acted as truth serum."

McGee snorted his blithe opinion as he gestured toward himself with his response.

"Beaten unconscious on the floor," McGee challenged. "At least you got to sit in a chair."

That retort caught Tony off guard and left him gaping. How McGee could turn losing a fight with Saleem Ulman's henchmen into sounding like a valiant and heroic act was surprising (to the point it nearly made Tony proud), but it completely misconstrued the event as Tony recalled it. Worse still, it seemed to put McGee one up on him.

"Got my nose broken by Corporal Worth when he was all raged up on 'roids," Tony offered.

"He separated my shoulder," McGee replied through a wince as he yawned.

"A crazy and vindictive CIA agent tried to kill me by putting a bomb in my car," Tony argued.

"You weren't even driving it when it blew up," McGee pointed out. "I got taken hostage by a group of felons in a prison."

"Female felons, McWuss," Tony scoffed. "They had a tooth brush as a weapon. Okay, McKnowItAll, best this one: Gibbs had been head smacking me for years before we ever met you. Top that."

McGee scoffed and managed to roll his eyes as his lids grew desperately heavy while his vision grew hazy around the edges. A numb sensation started to wash over him as he fought to stay focused on the conversation.

"Gee, Tony, I'm in the hospital because I got my heart broken by…," McGee began deliriously. He was going to finish the sentence with the words 'a bullet' but stopped as he spied the fuzzy but easily recognizable figure of the newcomer who appeared in the doorway. "Abby."

Tony cocked his head to the side and smirked, figuring it was a medication induced confession. It would be too good to ignore that statement on a regular day, but seeing as his probie was still held together with surgical thread and medical tape, he was willing to let it slide.

For now.

"Yeah, well, that's beside the point, but I'll let you win this time," Tony said. "By the way, we should discuss that whole issue eventually. A little, long overdue advice from Disney where your crush is concerned, McGluttonForPunishment: Let it go."

"No," McGee objected as he shook his head weakly as he raised his hand clumsily to point at the door but lacked the coordination to do so.

"Seriously, Tim," Tony advised in a low voice. "This time away from the office may be what you need to finally reboot your internal hard drive about our basement dwelling..."

"Abby's behind you," McGee said looked toward the doorway.

Tony grimaced then glared angrily at McGee before turning a radiant smile to the newcomer to the party.

"Oh, hi Abby," Tony said brightly.

He raised his hand to swat his partner but stopped as he recalled where he was and why. Instead, he smoothly swiped is hand through his own hair, smoothing the side of it

"We need to work on our communication," he muttered out of the side of his mouth to McGee. "We've lost our precision since you've been here."

Tony turned again to the doorway, where Abby hesitated. She held in place, hearing part of the discussion but mostly hearing her own heart pounding in her ears. McGee was awake and had been bantering with Tony, something she hadn't heard in quite a while. It was reassuring and welcoming, and she was sorry she had caused it to stop. Seeing him awake and more animated than her last visits lifted a great weight of worry off her heart.

"He doesn't bite," Tony assured her as he waved for her to approach. "And if he does, he's on enough antibiotics that it probably won't give you anything. Then again, he's half out of it on painkillers so avoiding his teeth should be pretty easy."

McGee dropped his head tiredly back to his pillows and used them for support as he turned to look at Tony with confusion. He wasn't sure what Tony was talking about as his head swam. He wondered if he was missing some obscure movie reference involving teeth but decided he did not care enough to seek clarification.

"Better get your ' _hi, how are ya's_ ' in now, Abs," Tony said spying the shift in McGee's alertness. "We're about to lose him."

"What?" she blinked as she entered the room with an anxious expression.

"Nurse Ratchet just gave him a nice, fresh IV of happy juice," Tony said nodding at the recently administered solution hanging from the pole beside the bed. "He'll be out of it shortly. Basically he's going down. I'm yelling timber."

"Oh," she deflated. "I tried to get here earlier, but there was an accident on 295. The road was backed up for like 40 minutes. I planned to be here sooner, but there was nowhere to turn off."

Tony nodded understandingly. He looked at McGee whose eyelids were drooping as his eyes began to lose focus.

"See, this is why you struggle with the ladies, Probie," Tony said knowingly then cleared his throat and spoke louder, jarring McGee awake slightly more. "At least stay awake long enough to let Abby ask how you're doing so you can lie badly and say you've never felt better."

McGee blinked with confusion at Tony's words. Individually they made sense, but together they were kind of a jumble. It also seemed strange that Tony was hurrying toward the door after seeming to have just arrived. McGee looked to Abby for an explanation but none seemed to be coming as she approached the bed wearing a pout.

"Are you here?" McGee asked her.

"Yes," she answered slowly baffled by the question. "You can see and hear me, can't you?"

"Were you at your lab?" he asked.

His hazy thoughts told him that her answer would settle his mind. Despite Sarah's recent assurances, he had been certain he spoke to Abby recently. Then again, he reminded himself, he thought his father had spoken to him as well. That alone was sufficient proof that his head was not a good barometer for reality.

"Well, yeah," Abby said looking at him oddly. "I've been in my lab working. Where else would I be?"

He felt a mixture of relief that he had an answer from the source and yet also felt disappointment because it meant that she hadn't visited him previously. Considering how serious everyone said his condition had been, he would have expected Abby to at least come see him once. After all, she left her lab and camped out at the hospital when Ducky got a knife stuck in his hand a few years earlier. It hadn't been a life-threatening injury, but she did not leave until he was out of surgery and given a positive prognosis. Of course, his answer for why there was a difference between her reaction to Ducky's injury and his seemed to be contained in the second part of her answer, which he could barely remember now that several seconds had passed so he let the sinking feeling in his stomach fade… or maybe that was just the medication taking a firmer hold.

His head listed to the side as his lids drooped further. Abby sighed and tried hard not to feel anger toward the idiot truck driver who broke down in the driving lane and caused a three car pile-up—thankfully without serious injuries—which resulted in her arriving an hour later than planned. Since her first visit to the hospital, she had not caught McGee awake even once as all her other time with him generally occurred after midnight. Now, as he was finally upgraded to fair condition, he was moving to a new room shortly according to Penny. This meant his visitors would need to conform to normal visiting hours. That left Abby very little time during the week to drop in.

McGee felt a hand touch his arm. The unexpected contact jarred him awake. He looked up with startled eyes to see Abby standing by his bed wearing a sad and disappointed expression. He wasn't sure what he had done to earn it this time and felt too tired to ask or even apologize. Then again, his fuzzy thoughts reminded him, there was a chance he was dreaming.

"Are you here?" he asked.

She sighed as she frowned and pet his arm gently.

"Yeah," she nodded. "Tony wasn't kidding about that IV, huh?"

"Who is Ivy?" McGee asked. "I'm allergic."

"No," Abby sighed. "Not a person and not the plant. I said IV as in… Never mind. You are down for the count, I guess. I know it's not your fault, but I'm starting to take this personally, McGee. You're always asleep when I see you. It's one thing when it's the middle of the night, but I'm going to get a complex from this. I show up today at 3 p.m. and you immediately check out."

Like with Tony (he'd been around, right?), the words she spoke were ones he knew but they twisted and warped in his mind.

"I'm checking out?" he asked. "Can't be. Dr. Westlake won't even let me walk without a babysitter."

"No," Abby shook her head and patted his shoulder consolingly. "I mean whenever I'm here you're… Forget it. I know it's because of your meds. At least you're doing a lot better; Penny keeps me informed. Still, I don't suppose I'll get a real answer from you right now if I ask if you're feeling any better."

McGee heard her words but a thought that was more pressing rose in his mind as he felt the pull of sleep tug hard on him.

"Tony has a crush on my mom," McGee said groggily.

"Um, I don't think so," Abby shook her head and chuckled quietly. "Not like that anyway."

"He said the plague gave him a sliver in Somalia," McGee continued. "Does any of that sound wrong?"

"All of it," Abby nodded as she rubbed his shoulder as his glazed eyes blinked slowly. "Get some sleep, McGee."

She slouched dejectedly as the medication took a firm hold of him. Sleep pulled him under swiftly as his head listed to the side toward her touch.

"If this was a scientific study," Abby said while she settled into a seat beside the bed, "nearly all evidence would point me toward reconsidering everything that I figured out lately."

The pulse meter beside the bed beeped softly but regularly in a calming rhythm. Abby listened to it with a sense of relief as she looked at him. He still sported a sickly pallor and hollows in his cheeks. The dark circles remained under his eyes, but they were not as pronounced as they had been previously. The recovery was going to be long, but it was undoubtedly underway. Knowing that was enough to overcome her disappointment in his frequently unavailable nature when she saw him.

"However," she noted with a relieved sigh as she continued to speak quietly as she clasped his hand gently, "this is not a scientific study or about needing proof. This is about you getting better, getting back to normal and getting back to all of us… especially me. I wanted to tell you today that I got subpoenaed to testify at a trial in New Orleans next week, which is both good and bad. It's good because I get a free trip home for a few days. I can see my family while I'm there, but it's also bad because it looks like while I'm gone they're going to discharge you. I wanted to be here when you leave, but don't worry. I'll call you… Oh, except you don't have your phone, do you? It's in evidence still. I'll call your sister instead. I have Sarah's number. She'll make sure we catch up with each other."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

A tall, thin woman with amber skin entered the squad room and cast her eyes around to find all desks in the center area empty except one. She turned to face Bishop with a questioning expression.

"Where's Gibbs?" the woman asked.

"In MTAC," Bishop replied. "I'm Special Agent Ellie Bishop. Can I help you?"

"Dropping this off to him," she said as she held up a rather thin inter-office envelope. "It contains a file he was asking about."

"And you are…?" Bishop asked.

"Cassie Yates," the woman replied. "Also a Special Agent. I'm stationed at Norfolk."

She nodded to Bishop then placed the file on Gibbs' desk. She turned to look at the empty desk across from his.

"Do you know how McGee is doing?" she asked as a worried pinch appeared in her eyes. "Tim started out at Norfolk before Gibbs had him reassigned to his team. We worked together vetting employment applications while he was still a probationary agent."

Bishop nodded, recognizing Yates' name from various email dispatches concerning the Virginia base 200 miles south of the Navy Yard.

"He's out of danger," Bishop answered. "According to this morning's report, his condition is now considered fair. They might release him soon."

"Already?" Yates blinked. "I mean, that's great, but I thought he was… you know."

"Oh, he's not well enough to be doing anything other than laying in bed," Bishop explained. "His doctor is tops in her field, but she's not that kind of miracle worker. The hospital is just going to kick him out soon—you know, the screwed up health care system figures as long as you're not needing transfusions that you're no longer in need of their round the clock care."

Yates nodded, disappointed that her old friend wasn't fully recovered but glad he was on his way to that. Hearing McGee was the agent gunned down overseas shocked Yates. In her mind, McGee was a capable field agent, but she knew his true strength was his technological skills. She would not worry if he was ever assigned to watch her back, but she knew she felt better for the agency (and at times the nation) when he was at a computer or in MTAC making sense of and wading through the tonnage of information that floated around them in tangled webs needing the proper logician to bring order to that chaos.

Her silence and the sad look on her face made an impression on Bishop.

"You worked with him a long time?" Bishop asked.

"Only a year, but we keep in touch," Yates said then smiled guiltily. "I'm a huge fan of his book. I kid him all the time, especially around my birthday, that he owes me the sequel. I don't care if he doesn't publish it for the rest of the world; I just want to read it. I'm not usually a shipper, but I just need to know that Agent McGregor and Amy Sutton end up together. The way _Deep Six_ ended on that front was just… It drives me nuts not knowing if they'll ever figure out that they're meant for each other."

Bishop nodded. She heard something from Tony about McGee once trying his hand at writing. She asked McGee about it but only received a mumbled half answer that told her nothing. Yates' revelation added yet another layer to her teammate, much like learning he had once dated Abby.

"Well, he's going to have some time on his hands," Bishop shrugged. "Maybe he'll use it to draft your birthday gift. Um, what's with the file for Gibbs? Do we have a new case?"

"No, more like an old one," Yates said. "That's a file Tim brought to me years ago. It was a cold case even then. He got his hands on it and asked me to look into it for him. I feel terrible that I never got around to it. He was transferred to the Navy Yard almost immediately after I received it. I looked at it and meant to dig into it, but then we were an agent down with his departure so … Gibbs probably wants my head on a platter, but I put it in a drawer years ago and forgot it was there until Gibbs called to ask me about it."

She sighed and admitted to herself that she was glad Gibbs wasn't there to give her that stony look of disappointment for her file handling gaff. What importance it still held or relevance it had in the present day, she did not know. She was just glad she was handing it off and would depart before facing the man who called for it.

Bishop was intrigued by Yates' information. She looked curiously at the envelope on her boss's desk.

"What sort of cold case?" she asked. "Something that happened at Norfolk?"

"No," Yates shook her head. "It's an old NIS case from a base that's no longer open."

"Alameda?" Bishop ventured, feeling her pulse quicken with anticipation.

"Yeah," Yates nodded.

"Something stemming from a Tiger Cruise?" Bishop pressed. "Child molestation allegations?"

She and Tony had compared notes and what they seemed to indicate was not good. It was troubling and sickening. She knew that, on some level, neither ever wanted to find the missing NIS file. Now, it appeared it had come home.

"Yes, sort of, on the Tiger Cruise aspect," Yates said with a confused look on her face. "Maybe this isn't the case Gibbs is looking for after all. Although, considering what's in it, I kind of doubt it. He doesn't believe in coincidences as I recall."

Bishop shook her head. The eager look in her eyes pleaded with the other agent to tell her more.

"Tim's marginally mentioned in this file," Yates explained. "I didn't realize that until I pulled it out the other day. If I had known, I'd have looked into it long ago. It shocked me. I think if any other agent was mentioned in this file, they'd have looked into themselves. But Tim's a rule follower… as long as it doesn't involve computer security. Anyway, he gave it to me back when he was still fresh from the Academy. He did the right thing, I guess. I mean, if looking into it turned up something, he obviously couldn't be involved and make the case stick. Of course, I don't think anything will come of it."

"What's the coincidence?" Bishop asked and swallowed as she braced for the awful news.

"McGee," Yates said sorrowfully. "There really isn't much in the file. No one ever pursued the case. They opened it, but there was no evidence to prove anything ever happened. It looks the original report wasn't credible. It's just a guess on my part, but I think McGee suspected that his father called in a few favors back in the day to make it go away, which considering one of the notes in the file, doesn't surprise me. That being said, there's no evidence Admiral (then Captain) McGee did anything like that, but… Tim and his dad, you know? Their relationship never gave me the warm fuzzies."

Bishop nodded. She felt horrible. First, she had found the existence of the file. Until she did so, the past was in the past and slumbered undisturbed. Whatever domino she tipped when doing that and letting Tony know, they were about to start knocking over even more. Next, she had doubted Gibbs' gut. She had been told, numerous times, that to do so was unwise. Regardless of what they learned from this inquiry, she knew she was prepared to shelve her skepticism about her boss' sixth sense forever.

"The agent who opened the file never closed it," Bishop said. "He must have believed the allegations but not been able to prove them."

"Well, it was Mike Franks," Yates scoffed then grinned appreciatively. "Considering what I found out when I did a little checking, I wouldn't be surprised if he left it open just to avoid the paperwork."

"How many kids made the outcry claim?" Bishop asked carefully as she tore her eyes away from McGee's desk. Looking at it, even empty, was not possible as she waited to hear the devastating news.

"Uh, just one technically," Yates said. "The inquiry never went beyond Carter's accusation. Considering the chaos of the cruise finishing and the retirement celebration held for the XO at the end, it's not surprising no one else came forward with a similar the story."

"Wait, just one victim and his name was Carter?" Bishop asked curiously. "McGee didn't claim that someone… hurt him as well?"

"Whoa," Yates waved her hands as she shook her head. "The victim was a John Doe who was found drowned in the Bay, well, most of him was found anyway. He ended up on the local PD's docket not ours. Police never even ID the body. The Carter kid just made the accusation that he saw what happened."

"He wasn't molested by an officer during the cruise?" Bishop blinked. "That's not why the file was opened?"

"Hell no," Yates' eyes went wide. "This was a murder, or the kid claimed it was. In the end, no one believed him."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	15. Chapter 15

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _NCIS—Mezzanine_**

Vance's assistant, Sheila, met him as he exited MTAC with Gibbs. Normally, she was unflappable—mostly because she ran Vance's office like a well-oiled machine. Her current agitation spoke volumes of someone or something not conforming to her required order.

"Sir, Rear Admiral Warren Curtis would like to speak to you," Sheila said.

The news as much as her unsettled deportment caught Vance off guard. He cocked his head to the side then forced a smile onto his face.

"Convey my apologies and tell him I will call him back," Vance said then put his eyes firmly on Gibbs.

"No, sir," she shook her head. "I can't. He's not on the phone. He's waiting in your office."

Vance raised his eyebrows and surreptitiously signaled Gibbs to follow him. Those holding flag rank did not visit the Director of NCIS often. The last to do so was Admiral John McGee two years earlier, and that was primarily a fishing expedition regarding his son. Under normal circumstances, even getting a flag officer to appear via the big screen in MTAC was rare as there was usually no need to go that high in the food chain for case. Therefore, the reason behind a visit from the Navy's Chief of Chaplains was unknown and intriguing.

Gibbs followed his director to the man's office where they were greeted by the one-star flag officer sporting a jovial grin on his round and coffee brown face.

"Admiral Curtis," Vance held out his hand then gestured to the chairs at his table. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

"I watched the Cortez/D'Matto fight over the weekend, as I'm sure you did," Curtis smiled knowingly. "Neither of us is Catholic Leon, but something tells me we both could use a moment of confession if you're reaction was anything like mine after that judge's decision."

Vance hung his head guiltily but said nothing more as the tension in the room eased a bit but not entirely. Curtis then turned to Gibbs and offered his hand.

"Agent Gibbs," the officer addressed the agent. "What's it been? Three years?"

"Four, I think, sir," Gibbs answered agreeably. "What brings you to the Navy Yard?"

Curtis took the seat and the glass of Scotch Vance offered. The trio sat at the table as it appeared the high ranking officer wanted to speak to both of them.

"I'm breaking rules and chain of command and all other forms of protocol," Curtis admitted. "It's no secret that I was a friend of John McGee's. I heard his son was injured in the line of duty. I'm using admiral's privilege to get information. I've haven't been close with Carol for a very long time. I saw her briefly at the funeral, but that was the first time in 10 years so it didn't seem right seeking information from her directly. I also didn't want to send my staff to break rules on my behalf."

Gibbs kept his face impassive while Vance folded his hands and leaned back slightly in his seat.

"Agent McGee was shot and sustained a serious injury, but he's recovering," Vance said.

Curtis visibly relaxed as he sighed gratefully. He meet Vance's surprised expression with a pair of sheepish eyes.

"John never made the best impression on people who were not in his command or among his colleagues," Curtis said knowingly. "I know he was not outwardly supportive of Tim's education and career choices, but I know he adored his son. For all the power and men he commanded without question, there was only one who he could never make bend to his will: Tim. I've known that boy since he was five; he never had his father's forceful or extroverted personality, but he could be as stubborn as his father—more so even when it suited him. The biggest difference between John and Tim in that regard was that Tim managed to turn that into a character trait you could respect whereas John could be more of a…"

He paused then shrugged, leaving each to fill in their own word. For Gibbs, _jackass_ and _fool_ seemed appropriate and accurate, but he kept that close hold.

"I know they had a difficult relationship," Vance nodded. "I believe they made some amends before the Admiral passed on."

Curtis nodded as he sighed while thinking of his deceased colleague and the many times he tried, unsuccessfully, to counsel the man on making those amends even before he was diagnosed with the deadly disease.

"I know," Curtis replied then turned to Gibbs. "I understand from Tim that you were largely responsible for him being the bigger man and reaching out to his father. Tim and I spoke at length after the funeral. I meant to send him email to see how he was doing since then. Anniversaries tend to be difficult in the first year after losing someone."

Vance nodded, he knew first-hand how it felt in the first year after losing someone… and the second and the third…

"What anniversary?" Gibbs asked. The Admiral died months earlier in the winter; there was no obvious anniversary afoot.

"John's birthday," Curtis replied. "It was on May 10th. Another friend, Admiral Paul Porter, told me he found out Tim was overseas in his vicinity that day, so he invited Tim to dine with him that night. Tim refused. After hearing that, I knew I should have checked on Tim sooner. Paul's was like John's Jiminy Cricket where Tim was concerned. He always appealed to John to take a greater interest and more active role in Tim's life. I think Paul kept closer tabs on the boy than John did sometimes. He knew when Tim joined NCIS before John did."

Gibbs nodded as he and Vance exchanged glances.

"Admiral, Agent McGee had dinner with Admiral Porter the night of May 10th," Gibbs revealed, which seemed to surprise Curtis. "He was shot the next morning when he returned to Afghanistan."

Curtis blanched and shook his head. He asserted that he definitely recalled Porter mentioning that McGee declined his initiation.

"I was on a call with Paul the morning of the 10th," Curtis recalled. "I remarked that things wouldn't be such a mess that day if John was still overseeing fleet operations. That's when Paul said Tim wouldn't see him. He was concerned by that and asked me if I could reach out to Tim to check on him. I… I forgot to do it. Paul never mentioned to me that Tim changed his mind."

He sported a puzzled look as he shook his head. The expression intrigued his present company.

"Something bothering you, Admiral?" Vance asked.

"Concern for a friend," he said evasively. "Paul must have known for a while that Tim was injured, but he only mentioned it to me the day before yesterday. He told me Tim got hurt and said since he knew I was going to be in the area could I get him an update on how he was doing and how the investigation into what happened was progressing. Frankly, I was shocked to hear what happened. I know about the hell raining down on the civilian defense contracting companies right now, but I had no idea that incident in Helmand Province that started it involved Tim. Are you making any progress on the investigation?"

Gibbs held his tongue and left it to Vance to explain that Sec Nav had ordered it closed. So, when the director answered, Gibbs was intrigued by his response.

"We're getting there," Vance nodded. "There are a lot of questions that need answers."

"I hope you nail whoever did this," Curtis said heatedly. "I'm glad to hear Tim's on the mend. I know how hard it can be for someone to come back from a serious injury. I've counseled a lot of service men on their long roads to recovery. If anyone can keep their head on straight and pull through something like this, it's John's boy. Most people don't realize it, but Tim's a tough kid in his own way. He's a good kid. Always was."

"Not a kid anymore, Admiral," Gibbs said.

"To me, he'll always be one," Curtis chuckled. "I know it wasn't easy for him being John's son, and John never tried to make it easy, but he had his reasons, and it paid off."

"Yeah," Gibbs said, figuring this was an 'agree to disagree' moment, particularly when he saw an opportunity to answer a few stray questions lingering in his mind.

"You said you've known Tim for a long time," Gibbs began casually. "Were you around when the family was at Alameda?"

"I was," he nodded. "That's where we met. I didn't serve under John at that time, but my wife and I lived a few doors down from them. I was hoping to get assigned to the Enterprise so I made sure to introduce myself to her captain. Tim was just starting school back then and played baseball with my sons."

Vance stroked his chin. If the twitch in his lip was read correctly, he was in desperate need of a toothpick. He offered Gibbs a slight incline of his head to keep going.

"Do you know about that incident with the Tiger Cruise when Tim was eight?" Gibbs remarked casually. "The one that brought the NIS investigator around."

Curtis's eyes widened slightly, and he inhaled slowly as he shook his head.

"Well now, that was none of my business," Curtis answered cautiously. "I think it's a bit of history best left undisturbed. Why is it important now?"

"Agent McGee's injuries have churned up a lot confusion," Vance said skillfully. "When you hear something like that, we're duty bound to look into the matter. Wouldn't you agree?"

Curtis sighed with hesitation and uncertainty before eventually nodding.

"As I recall, it was another boy who started the story," Curtis scoffed. "A couple boys, snooping around when they should have been with the rest of the Tiger group for the closing formalities, is trouble waiting to happen. Leon, whatever Tim has said, he's obviously confused. He's probably just remembering that old story that they convinced themselves was real at the time. There was never any investigation because the agent who showed up apparently didn't believed what he heard. I know when John found out, he kept Tim out of it entirely, which was good parenting on his part. As I recall, Tim ended up sick for a while after all of that—couldn't leave the house even—I think it might have been his asthma. John said that was always a problem for him. Poor kid wasn't strong enough to handle it back then. Look, gentlemen, your agency has serious work to do. Don't waste time on a tale made up by one kid trying to scare some younger children a long time ago."

Vance nodded his head understandingly as he leaned forward and shrugged.

"I hear you, but we have rules to follow, Admiral," Vance said easily. "Can't make an exception and take a shortcut by filing this one away without a little, cursory inquiry—especially in the current climate. The Defense Department is getting batted around on the Hill for doing that on security already. Can't give anyone any reason to start pointing fingers at NCIS, now can I?"

Curtis nodded and muttered his understanding. From Gibbs' perspective, Curtis believed what he said about there being nothing to the old story that NIS deemed not fit for a full investigation. For as odd as it seemed, learning earlier that the case involved an allegation of murder had settled the agent's mind. First, it confirmed that his subordinate wasn't harboring scars from being a victim of sexual violation. Next, it answered the larger question of why was Mike Franks assigned to look into the story in the first place. That Franks didn't document much—and having seen the file now, Gibbs was reading between the unwritten lines—it also made sense. As soon as the San Francisco Police Department returned their call, he would know much more.

"I will say this much," Curtis said as he stood to leave as he shook his head ruefully. "If that story was true, it certainly was something no child should witness."

"True, but life doesn't spare our most innocent," Vance offered. "Then again, like you said, there's a strong chance that nothing actually happened. Kids have active imaginations."

"That they do," Curtis remarked. "John was not a man who understood a child's need for wonder and the time to let their imagination roam. He made sure Tim understood a crime was not something to make up stories about. I joked with him once that the lecture he gave Tim about that story was probably the driving force behind his son becoming an NCIS agent. Needless to say, John was not amused."

Gibbs nodded and felt prone to agree, but not for the reason Curtis believed. The admiral bid the NCIS leaders farewell and left the office. Gibbs remained staring at the empty doorway for a long pause before turning back to the director. Vance kept to his seat as a firm expression set in his eyes.

"I'm sold," Vance said eventually in a low voice. "Do what you have to but do it as quietly as possible. Move slowly so you don't kick up notice if you can avoid it. You find out if anyone died on that cruise or at the port when that ship arrived, and find out whether Admiral Porter had any involvement."

"Not buying the explanation that it was all in some kid's imagination?" Gibbs asked with the hints of a victorious grin in his eyes.

"I know all about McGee' imagination—I read his book," Vance said sternly. "He doesn't fabricate tales that never happened. He takes the truth and just gives it a nicer paint job. You have a line yet on how any of this connects to the attack at Foxtrot Camp?"

"One so far for certain," Gibbs nodded as he headed toward the door. "McGee."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Reagan National Airport—Gate C12_**

Abby rested her chin on her fist as she sat at her departure gate. The problem with being the agency's leading expert in several forensic disciplines was that she was often in demand to provide her knowledge. Not that being in demand was bad. Job security was always a good thing; also, being wanted on top and perplexing cases kept the work interesting.

But in demand it also meant that sometimes she was needed when what she wanted was to be left alone—like now.

It did not happen often, but every once in a while, she was called upon to serve as a witness at trial. Frankly, one of the best parts of working with Gibbs was that his suspects usually confessed. That often meant no trial as necessary. The lawyers would gather afterward and work out either a plea agreement or sentencing recommendation. In the end, court was something Abby only went to a few times per year.

This week was one of those rare times. Making it more difficult was that the trial was not in her normal jurisdiction.

Generally, when testifying, she didn't have to travel beyond the courts at JAG headquarters in Falls Church, Virginia. Today, however, was one of those days that was outside the norm. She was getting on a plane bound for her hometown of New Orleans, and while she was excited to testify to her lab findings and help the prosecutor put a serial rapist hiding in the ranks of petty officers in jail, she was also sad to be going because there was somewhere else she wanted to be.

She learned from Penny the previous evening that McGee was being discharged. Granted, Abby thought they were letting him leave too soon, but not being a doctor she admitted (grudgingly) she had no say in this decision. However, to be certain it was a safe option, she had gotten a second opinion from Ducky.

His reassurances that leaving the hospital was not endangering McGee made her feel somewhat better. As he reminded her what a germ-ridden Petri Dish hospitals could be, she backed off her objections. For certain, McGee still needed close watching and care, but if leaving the hospital was a way to reduce his stress and chances for contracting infections and other bacterial and viral ailments she was all for the eviction. She just wished she could be there to help him.

She had seen him several times in the previous week. Each time he was alert and appeared in relatively good spirits, although his mood was subdued and he was notably quiet. She attributed that mostly to the number of people in his room during each visit. Since being moved out of the critical care unit, McGee's visiting rules had changed. Anyone could see him, but it had to take place during normal visiting hours, and there was no limit to the number of visitors he could have. With the restrictions off, it appeared half of the Navy Yard had arrived in his room to check on him—that included Navy personnel (who knew the McGee family) and NCIS employees. Thinking of those visitors, Abby turned to her phone and dialed.

"Special Agent Bishop's desk," an unexpected voice answered the call.

"Palmer?" Abby questioned. "Why are you answering Ellie's phone?"

"Abby!" he replied, the smile on his face was evident in his voice. "She asked me to camp at her desk and wait for a call. Not from you—she's expecting a call, but she got summoned to the conference room. It's supposed to be from someone in California so when the call arrives I am supposed to transfer it to the conference room."

"Oh," Abby shrugged wondering briefly about the vague statement involving the west coast. "I was just calling to see if anyone is going to the hospital for McGee? He's going home today. Well, not home, but to the townhouse where his mother is staying in Baltimore."

"I'm the only one going to see him today as far as I know," Palmer replied. "I talked to his grandmother, and she said they'd appreciate it if I stopped by the townhouse later. McGee apparently doesn't want anyone around. I guess all the attention is getting to him. I feel bad. I never went to see him in all this time and here I am showing up at the end when he wants to be left alone."

"Why is no one else going?" Abby asked abruptly. "We're his family, too."

"Well, Dr. Mallard is downstairs finishing up an autopsy on a suicide," Palmer explained. "Gibbs and his team are in with Vance—some big powwow behind closed doors."

"Okay," Abby sighed as she heard the boarding call for her flight. "Well, give Timmy my best, and tell him I'll be in touch tonight if it's not too late. I know he doesn't have his cell and I don't have the number at the place where his mother is staying, but I sent a text to his sister. I'm just waiting for her reply."

Palmer chuckled in a way that signaled he was trying too hard to be funny and failing miserably.

"Careful now, Abby," he said. "Someone might get the idea that you're trying to woo him back to you." When an uncomfortable pause filled the air, Palmer cleared his throat and tripped over his back peddling attempt. "I mean people might because you've been in his room late at night while he's in bed… I mean, obviously you weren't in bed with him. You were just with him, and I don't mean with him like _with_ him but…. What was the messaged you wanted me to give Tim?"

Abby shook her head as she grabbed her carry on and walked toward the gate.

"Never mind," she said. "Just do me a favor and let me know if he needs anything. I know his family is there, but they've had it rough with basically living at the hospital for the last couple weeks. I'll be back in a few days so if there is anything I can do to help out, I'll do it. I told Penny the same thing, but I haven't been able to catch up with his mother and I didn't get the chance to tell McGee himself."

Abby thought it was wonderful that he had so many visitors whenever she saw him in the last few days, but she also resented it a bit. While in the ICU, she could see him but not converse with him due to him being unconscious. In the regular room, she could see him but also could not talk to him as it seemed everyone else got in their well-wishes until he began and fade and would fall asleep again.

Palmer sighed sympathetically. He knew Abby was feeling anxious about McGee's condition. He had even mentioned it to Tony, as a point of concern but was waved off by the agent. Tony said he had discussed it with Abby already and that her current worries were nothing more than normal Abby fears regarding anyone she knew being at less than 100 percent. Tony felt confident that as soon as McGee's location was no longer a medical facility, she would return to her normal level of curiosity and anxiety.

It was not Palmer's nature to doubt Tony. The two had a bond, an obtuse friendship far from the eyes of the rest of Gibbs' team. Initially, Palmer likened it to McGee's relationship with Abby; he and Tony shared things with each other and sought advice from each other. However, he had also discussed things with his wife, Breena. She had other thought on the McGee/Abby friendship. She thought there was more to Abby's behavior since McGee was hurt than her typical fretfulness. But, rather than have that talk on the phone with his colleague, Palmer decided to give her a more lighthearted send off as she flew south for a few days.

"Well, if it's Tim's mom you want to get a message to, then you should probably talk to Tony—not sure if you heard, but he's her biggest fan," he chuckled. "Don't worry about anything here, Abby. McGee will be fine. He's only leaving the hospital not being cut loose from all medical treatment. After surgery like this, he's going to need close monitoring for a while. Then there is going to be a few weeks of physical therapy—after all they cut through the muscles in his chest wall, repaired a bullet hole in his leg and harvested a length of vein from that same leg to repair the damage to his aorta. He's looking at a 16-week recovery period from all this. He's going to be in close contact with a doctor for a while. He'll have plenty of downtime coming up. You can catch up with him when you're back."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Johns Hopkins Hospital_**

McGee sat on the edge of his bed and tried hard not to feel defeated by shoe laces, but there was no denying he felt demoralized.

His mother was about to tie his shoes because he couldn't.

The fact that he was wearing shoes and street clothes was a huge step for him, but the fact that he couldn't actually dress himself without assistance was disheartening. Thankfully, his mother had let one of the nurses assist him with his clothing. He wasn't ready to relinquish that much of his dignity. As childish as it seemed, he wasn't even prepared to tell her he had a tattoo (and had had it for 12 years) much less let her see it. He had strategically told Tony years ago that his ink was the word "Mom" and that it was located on his posterior, but that was simply to shock the man after being probied by Tony during their first case together. It was, in fact, a short by fascinating equation emblazoned on his left hip—a tribute to his love of math and science with a tip of the hat to the fact that not all mysteries of the universe were yet solved and understood. It was more than an equation; it served as a dissertation and form of poetry to those who could read and comprehend it.

So far, he only met one person who ever saw it did that instantly. Certainly, Delilah recognized most of it but she asked for his full explanation of it. Maybe Erin, a woman who died long ago because he didn't protect her, might have understood it if she had ever seen it. But she was killed while on the phone with McGee as they were just getting to know each other.

No, only Abby had seen it and got it instantly, which was appropriate because meeting her had been the final nudge for him to get inked in the first place.

Not that her approval was relevant now.

McGee shoved thoughts of the forensic scientist to the back of his mind as he looked with defeat at his shoes. He sat in a wheelchair and looked at his sneakers mocking him with their unraveled laces.

He knew he needed the help. The stitches and staples were out of his leg now from where (first) he was shot and (next) he had vascular tissue removed to patch his other ailments. Between the aches in those muscles and the ones in his still healing ribcage, bending over to put on the shoes or bringing his foot up to have the ties secured was simply not going to happen.

When Carol entered the room, she looked at the shoes and instantly read the situation. She simply took to putting them on his feet without hesitation.

"I was four the last time you had to do this," McGee noted dejectedly.

"I remember," Carol said easily as she smiled up at him. "We spent a very rainy afternoon practicing how to make knots and bows. I think it would have been easier on us if I had understood that to teach a lefty, I needed to do everything opposite of the way I usually do it, but in the end, we did okay."

"Thanks for that," McGee said sheepishly. "Not the teaching me, I mean, thanks for that, too, but I meant for understanding. Most people told me that I had to do thinks _backwards_ or the _wrong_ way because I'm left-handed. The Admiral always said I was…"

He swallowed hard as his thoughts grew muddled and his throat tight. He took a slow, deep breath as he pushed back the memory that had thrust itself to the surface—one of his father's frustrated moments trying to teach his son something he thought was elementary.

"You confounded him," Carol offered as she pet his cheek and smiled. "Which was very good for him. He needed someone who did that to him from time-to-time rather than just automatically do things his way every time. He needed you to keep his ego in check. I know he always enjoyed hearing that you did the same thing to others. Do you remember Mr. Greer?"

McGee nodded as he recognized the name of his seventh grade history teacher. The man never liked McGee, which was odd for him as he had never had a teacher who did not like him.

"Your father and I went to a parent/teacher conference with him about you," Carol recalled. "He called you contrary, arrogant, and disruptive with your subversive questions."

"I was never any of those," McGee pleaded, feeling like a schoolchild on the verge of being grounded again. "He just didn't know what he was talking about half of the time. Grandpa McGee was in World War II in the Pacific theater and talked about it a lot. Mr. Greer knew that Pearl Harbor got attacked but that's about it. I only asked him…"

Carol chuckled lovingly to calm him as she completed tying the shoes.

"I know," she said. "Your father listened to the man complain for about 10 minutes then gave him that look, the one that said Mr. Greer had wasted his time pointlessly. He said 'S _o in other words, my son told you how to do your job and made you look stupid? That's your fault, not his, and for the record, everything you've told us indicates he was right._ ' Then he took my hand and said the conference was over so we left. He smiled the whole way home."

McGee huffed his confusion. He remembered that incident a bit differently. His father came home and grounded him for being insubordinate in class and not respecting his teacher. McGee opted not to discuss the matter further, nor did he get the chance as an unexpected visitor appeared in the doorway.

"Tim?" Anthony DiNozzo, Sr., said stepping into the room wearing a wide, beaming grin.

To the robust and spry Dinozzo, the patient looked pale, small, and skeletal figure sitting in the wheelchair beside the bed. For a moment, the Long Island business man was nearly struck silent. McGee was a shell of the young agent the elder DiNozzo last saw at his son's office a year earlier.

"Mr. DiNozzo?" McGee blinked. "What are you doing here, sir?"

"Now, Tim, I've told you to call me Tony or A.D. if you prefer," DiNozzo said genially. "Junior told me a few weeks ago that you got hurt. I had no idea you were still in the hospital. How is it going?"

"It had its moments," McGee replied trying desperately to sound stronger than he felt. "I'm fine now."

"I can see that," the silver-haired man grinned at Carol. "Well, since it landed you in the company of such a ravishing woman, your stint here may have just been worth it."

McGee narrowed his eyes at the gleaming smile of Tony's father. His muscles, weak and atrophied though they were, tightened. He cleared his throat as kept his voice even and made the introductions

"This is my mother, Carol McGee," he said warily as DiNozzo let his eyes feast on her. "Mom, this is Anthony DiNozzo, Senior, Tony's dad."

"Carol, it's a pleasure to meet you," DiNozzo grinned as he lifted he hand and kissed it regally. "Please, call me Tony—I may be the original, but I don't stand on ceremony, particularly with lovely ladies."

When his mother beamed back then giggled— _giggled_!—McGee cleared his throat again then glared at both of them. If not for his inability to stand quickly (or necessarily reliably) from the wheelchair, he would have place himself between them.

"What brings you here, sir?" McGee asked loudly, attempting to break the man's gaze from his mother.

"Business," DiNozzo replied as he looked again at McGee. "I was visiting with Prince Al—you remember him, _Prince Omar_ Ibn Alwaan? Well, a friend of his from Germany, Hans Fritzsal, is putting together a consortium of businessmen for a research facility here in Baltimore in connection with the hospital and the University. I am offering my services and skills—at Al's request... The things we do for friends. There's a reception tomorrow night for the prospective investors to meet. I was just touching base with the hospital's chairman on few last minute details when I heard you were a patient here. I wanted to check and see how you were doing."

"Thank you," McGee nodded. "I'm actually getting released today."

"I'm glad to hear that," DiNozzo said patting him on the shoulder gently but in a reassuring manner. "NCIS must be missing you something awful. I know Junior is. You're not jumping right back into work are you?"

Carol cast a worried, almost scolding look, at her son. McGee blinked innocently, knowing the worry that prompted her reaction but chose not to voice his assurances to her. He knew that the less he spoke of his job the easier it would be for her to slowly acclimate to the idea that he would return to it once doctors gave him a clean bill of health.

"That's still far in the future," Carol answered for him. "Timothy is coming home with me for a few more weeks while he recovers."

McGee shot a questioning look at her upon hearing that information. The last he heard, they were going to discuss whether he was going to go to Dallas with her. As far as he was concerned, he could return to his apartment. For reasons he did not fully understand yet, the hospital was reporting that his insurance had covered all of his treatment costs. He fully intended to verify that, figuring with his luck he would receive a $50,000 bill out of the blue soon enough. Still, if the costs were covered, he wanted to explore the option of simply having a private nurse check on him once per day for a few days until he was able to be up and around on his own more. Between that and the offer of his sister to help him out, he felt staying in the place he called home was better than relocating to Texas for several weeks.

"Is Baltimore your home?" DiNozzo asked her.

"No," she shook her head. "I live in Dallas. A family friend arranged a flight for us to head back there in a few days. He is actually one of the possible investors for your project. He flew in yesterday and will be going back with us. Maybe you've met him already. His name is Griffin Price."

DiNozzo's face split into a wide and eager grin as a laugh lingered behind his eyes. It was evidence he recognized the name and held fond memories of the man who possessed it.

"Good old Griff!" he chuckled. "I met him back in '95 when I was doing some business with real estate capital in Fort Worth area. I actually helped introduce him to his late partner, Bruce, may he rest in peace—that man was one hell of an architect and Griff could sell paint to the Pope. They were quite the dream team in the day. So, will you be attending the reception with Griff?"

Carol shook her head and looked at her son with a careworn expression.

"I told him it would be best if I stayed with Timothy tomorrow night," Carol said demurely petting her son's shoulder comfortingly. "We're flying home the next day so I want to make sure he's settled and ready for the flight."

McGee blinked at that revelation but held his tongue to avoid arguing with her. He wanted to discuss the issue but figured as long as she viewed him as a vulnerable patient still he had no chance of winning the debate. However, DiNozzo had just handed him a possible opportunity to prove his independence to her.

"Mom, you didn't tell me Griffin asked you to go with him," McGee said. "You can go. I'll be fine. Sarah and Penny will be around. You've been living in this hospital for weeks. You need to go out and do something for yourself. I don't need a full-time babysitter. You should accompany him as a thank you. After all, Griffin made it easier for you to be here plus he's flying you home."

Carol looked at him knowingly, the kind of look that said she knew what he was attempting but she was not fooled by it.

"Nice try, but you're going with me," she reminded him sternly, letting him know his subtle hints that he could return to his apartment on his own were not having any effect.

"Regardless, of who is flying anywhere, you should go with Griffin tomorrow night," McGee insisted. "He likes an entourage, Mom. He needs one. He's assured me of that several times in the last few years. You shouldn't let him to go to this reception alone."

Carol sighed and pet his head affectionate as she shook her head.

"I'm not abandoning you on your second night out of the hospital," Carol said firmly. "Griffin is a night owl and likes to be the last to leave any gathering. He says he makes his best deals when he's outlasted all the other competitors. He'll want to stay until dawn getting every last detail about this project while he tries to get hooked into every part of it. I haven't had the kind of stamina needed to keep up with him like that since your sister was five."

DiNozzo nodded understandingly as he interjected himself into the discussion.

"Carol, I completely understand," he said. "But Tim is right about Griff not liking to enter any room solo. He's one of our top candidates to make this project a success so Prince Al would want me to make every effort to make Griff feel as welcome and engaged in it as possible. So let me offer you another option. Griff and I can both take you. You can start the evening listening to him tell those same old golfing and airline jokes of his. Then, when you start to fear it's the witching hour and time to call it a night, I'll bring you home. My business obligations for the evening will end after I give my opening remarks on behalf of Prince Al. I've already accomplished even more than I anticipated so tomorrow night I'm just there for a glass of champagne and a few photos. I wasn't planning on staying too long as it is."

McGee was torn. He wanted his mother to do something other than fuss and worry over him, but he wasn't sure he wanted her to be DiNozzo's escort. No, _companion_. No, _date_. No…. He shook his head as his vocabulary eluded him.

Still, his mother looked worn and in need of conversation that did not center around IV's, medication, pulse rates and blood pressure. She needed to be around people her own age and with interests that had nothing to do with the aftermath gunshot wounds. If that mean nudging her to spend the evening with the Long Island Casanova, then that was what he needed to do.

"Sounds like a good compromise," McGee said. "You can go for a little while, spend some time with Griffin, and then Mr. DiNozzo can get you home. It'll be for you… and me. I want you to go and do something that isn't all about me. It might also get Sarah to stop complaining that all you do is pay attention to me lately. That alone is…"

"Okay," Carol cut him off. "Relax, Timothy. I'll think about it."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Autopsy Suite_**

Gibbs perched on the edge of Ducky's desk while the medical examiner finished reading the report the investigator handed to him upon his arrival. The location for this discussion seemed uniquely appropriate as the newest piece of evidence in the case was the report about a dead body… albeit one that had been buried for nearly 30 years.

"The M.E. found cause of death to be drowning, but he was wrong," Ducky shook his head. "The photos clearly show extensive damage to the dermis and extremities from a variety of aquatic life and at least one boat propeller. He was in the water for at least four days, but I suspect as many as 10 based on the decomposition of the corpse."

"Ten days?" Gibbs looked at the pictures of the body. "You sure?"

"As sure as I can be," Ducky replied. "The Pacific Ocean is notably colder than the Atlantic. Mark Twain once said the coldest winter he ever spent was a summer in San Francisco. Having been there myself several times, I can think of no reason to disagree. The lower water temperatures delayed the decomposition. Even with the skewed time of death estimate, the medical examiner should have clearly seen that the man did not drown. The fluid in his lungs was not from inhaling it. It was from the water penetrating the multiple gashes in the chest cavity—all caused postmortem. No, my leading theories for what killed him are the massive contusions to his head and neck. He was beaten, quite severely and strangled. If pressed, I would say the most likely cause was the savage beating. If his hands had still been intact, there might have been wounds visible to show whether he fought back."

"Or to identify him," Gibbs noted.

"Yes, that, too," Ducky nodded. "Regardless, our John Doe met a violent and painful end. If my estimate is correct, I place the time of death between October 3rd and October 5th of 1986. Abby might be able to give you more information regarding currents and tides to help determine where the man was placed in the water, but I can assure you that he did not die there. San Francisco Bay was merely his dumping ground."

Gibbs nodded. The detectives at the time ruled the death the work of drug dealers, or more accurately, the enforcers who worked with suppliers. The man had evidence of intravenous drug use on what remained of his arms. He was a John Doe, and another addict or dealer found floating in the Bay simply was one fewer crook for them to chase. The case was closed without much investigation.

"What the PD had for physical evidence still is on it's way to us," Gibbs said. "What's left of the body will be exhumed and flown here in a couple days. Abby can help with the evidence when she's back from New Orleans."

"Would I be making too much of a leap to suspect you are hoping she finds something in that evidence that ties the man to the Naval Air Station Alameda?" Ducky asked then received a flat stare in response. The doctor nodded. "One doesn't need to be much of an investigator to figure out that a case of this age, from this area, is likely tied to your current area of interest."

Gibbs folded his arms and made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. The report didn't necessarily link to Alameda in any way. Just because Ducky thought it likely the guy died and went into the water about the time the ship from the Tiger Cruise put into port, didn't mean the man was killed on the ship or in the port. In fact, there was no evidence that happened. There was just…. Gibbs' gut.

"You must have presented some connection to the Navy to get the judge to sign the exhumation order," Ducky said.

"We've got an unidentified body, possibly a dealer or maybe just a junkie, found in the water on October 14, 1986," Gibbs said. "We've got a partial report from an NIS agent who was called in around that time because of suspicions raised by a kid identified simply as Carter who claimed he saw a sailor kill someone."

"Yes, well, it was not just any agent," Ducky noted. "It was your mentor and former partner, Mike Franks. As you know, I was never fully comfortable with his style of investigation or judgement; however, even you must admit that his report is severely lacking in detail."

Gibbs grunted his agreement.

"Mike was assigned to Alameda briefly in the mid-80s," Gibbs said. "He pissed off the deputy director at the time and got sent there for a few months."

"What did he do specifically to merit that demotion from his place of honor at Camp Pendleton?" Ducky wondered as it seemed Franks was never held accountable for any of his brusque or off the books actions.

"He refused to work with an intel analyst named Pollard," Gibbs said and smiled proudly.

"Oh my," Ducky reacted with raised eyebrows.

Pollard was well-known now in NCIS history (and military criminal justice over all) as a spy-one that received the only sentence of its kind for someone convicted of espionage.

"Mike told me years later that he always thought Pollard was a kook and tried initially to get him fired," Gibbs explained with a wistful expression about his fallen mentor. "Then he raised hell in the DD's office when no one would listen to him about Pollard. A year later, when Pollard was arrested for espionage, the DD wanted to make sure he had distance from the guy. The way Mike explained it to me, he wasn't ready to let the guy sweep everything under the rug so he... reminded him."

"Ah yes, I can only imagine," Ducky nodded.

Pollard remained black spot on the agency's history. He was the only man ever convicted of espionage in the United States who received life in prison as his sentence—one he was still serving 30 years later-rather than the death penalty. The only thing that saved him was to whom he passed information, an ally, specifically Israel.

"So for his _I told you so_ strategy, Franks was sent from Camp Pendleton to Alameda," Ducky nodded. "I take it you believe this deficient report on the boy's story about a murder on the base at Alameda is evidence of Franks phoning it in, as it were, while he waited to be returned to his rightful duty station—essentially thumbing his nose at his superiors for their folly."

Gibbs shook his head. That was not, in fact, what he saw in the report and the lack of effort shown in looking into the matter.

"No," he said. "I think Mike found out the San Francisco PD had floater who was probably his missing body. He figured it wasn't his jurisdiction any more. Maybe this Carter kid saw something, but if his best witness was a 10-year-old who didn't seem credible, how much was he going to get doing a full-blown investigation when he was just a few days away from heading home? In Mike's mind, the world was down one addict."

"But there was still a murderer afoot," Ducky pointed out.

"Not to Mike," Gibbs shook his head. "City M.E. ruled it a drowning. A kid said a sailor killed a guy. Didn't really say where other than he threw the man overboard. How would a civilian get aboard a Navy ship on a Tiger Cruise but not be reported if he didn't leave it? Everyone on that cruise was accounted for."

"Except the mysterious, young Mr. Carter," Duck pointed out as he shuffled some papers. "I read the passenger manifest for the cruise. There is no child named Carter listed among the passengers."

"Which is probably why Mike to disregarded the child's story," Gibbs sighed. "Kid was registered as having been on the cruise like he claimed. Admiral Curtis said the whole thing was a story made up by the boy to scare the younger kids on the base. Maybe this Carter kid did just that. McGee heard it. He was young. He has an imagination. Maybe it scared him enough that…"

His voice trailed off as he met Ducky's stern and disbelieving expression.

"You don't believe that, do you?" the M.E. asked. "Timothy can be timid so a story with sufficient detail might have caused him some fear, but I cannot image a tale told between boys alone would terrify him to the point that he went mute for a week and needed to see a counselor to come out of his traumatized state. His mother's description of his reaction sounds very much like a form of shock. No, whatever did that to him was not merely a chilling story from a friend—particularly one that was allegedly not even with him when the fear gripped him so tightly."

Gibbs sighed.

"So something else happened," he said. "Maybe it was McGee who saw the man get killed and he told the Carter kid. The crime wasn't reported to the NIS office until 8 days after the cruise. From what his mother said, he was speaking again by that point."

"But he was not seeing anyone," Ducky reminded him. "Admiral Curtis recalled Timothy was kept in bed for a while. The family reported he was having a bout with his asthma. It is possible that is what occurred. His medical records and his own offerings over the years indicate he suffered from it terribly in his younger years."

"Maybe," Gibbs said. "What I do know is that Mike never closed the case. He left it open in case something more turned up... or other witnesses came forward. Admiral Curtis seemed to think McGee's father stopped him from discussing what he saw because he didn't believe the story."

"And you think Admiral Porter was somehow involved?" Ducky asked. "Do you think he was behind the campaign to disbelieve the boys' tale? Or are you thinking it is something more sinister?"

Gibbs had no evidence to think either option. Still, every time Gibbs thought they were about to unearth the truth, they came up with a shovel of nothing… or more questions. Logic dictated that at this point there was nothing to find. The John Doe wasn't suspected to be in Navy. There was little credible evidence that anyone in the Navy killed him. And there was no mention of Porter or McGee in any of the documentation. Gibbs sighed.

"McGee read the NIS file," he told Ducky. "He went looking for it when he was stationed at Norfolk—according to Cassie Yates, Chris Pacci put him onto it."

"Christopher?" Ducky blinked and looked sadly at his empty autopsy tables. "How did he know about it?"

The long-dead agent had laid on one of them, eviscerate long before he met the medical examiner's scalpel.

"He didn't," Gibbs said, remembering a similar image of the agent as Ducky did. "Remember how Chris was working a cold case when he died? He had called McGee in Norfolk to go to the Bufford County courthouse to pull an old file. Cassie said McGee and Pacci talked on the phone for a while about cold case investigations. After Chris's case turned into a homicide, it apparently got McGee interested in looking into this case. He located the file and read it, but then I pulled him to the Navy Yard to help out so he left it behind with Cassie. He asked her to see what she could find. She got busy and it got lost in the shuffle all this time."

Ducky shook his head at the twists and complexities—all perfectly logical and conforming to the most basic laws of causality—that brought them to this moment. There were still too many holes to say with any certainty what had happened in California all those years ago or whether it had any relevance to the events of Afghanistan. However, there was a great deal of smoke seeping from those many holes.

"Timothy did say no one believed _us_ ," he reminded Gibbs. "Perhaps if you can find this Mr. Carter, he could shed some light into these many dark shadows."

Gibbs agreed. There was also the therapist—the one who was swiftly reassigned to a new base after talking to McGee. Gibbs said he felt she might be a better candidate for offering up some truth than a child who did not seem reliable to Franks all those years ago.

"Perhaps," Ducky sighed. "But Jethro, if she has any ethics or morals, she won't tell you anything she may recall or have in her files. Even if it was for only one discussion, Timothy was her patient. She might have been a Navy officer, but Timothy was a civilian. Confidentiality applies to their interactions. Of course, there is an easier way. You could get Timothy to sign a waiver allowing her to speak freely to you. Then again, might it not be easier still to simply have this discussion with him?"

"Ducky," Gibbs shook his head, "he was able to resist speaking about when he was high on painkillers. What do you think would make him talk when he's not doped up on morphine?"

Ducky looked at his colleague with a settling gaze as the agent looked to him for an answer he could not conceive. The medical man, however, thought obvious.

"You, Jethro," he said encouragingly. "Timothy trusts you. A lot has happened to him recently so his guard is up, but once he is convinced his recovery is a fact and not a fluke or fallacy, you'll be able to speak to him. I cannot fathom a guess at what he may know or remember from his childhood, but I think he remains your best and most valuable clue in all of this."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	16. Chapter 16

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Wyman Park Neighborhood, Baltimore_**

McGee grit his teeth and turned his face away from the spoon being held in front of him. He had put the utensil down a minute earlier when he decided, yet again, that he hated oatmeal and wasn't interested in eating any more of it. He considered it a huge victory that his mother had merely placed the bowl on the tray beside him and asked if he needed any assistance initially. When he said no, she left him to finish getting ready for her evening out.

His momentary independence was shattered two minutes later with the arrival of his sister, who grabbed the spoon and started trying to feed him like a baby. He kept his temper until she began giggling and making airplane noises as if that would entice him to finish the meal.

"Knock it off, Sarah," McGee snarled.

"Mom said you need to eat all of this," she taunted as she grinned broadly. "I think I finally understand why you can be the way you can be. It really is kind of a rush being left in-charge. No wonder you never complained whenever you had to babysit me. It's like having total, universal control. I could get used to this, _Timmy_."

Not amused, McGee glared at her.

"You're not in charge," he grumbled. "You have no control here, and stop calling me Timmy like I'm your ward for the evening. I thought you were going to dinner with Penny."

"Well, I was," his younger sister sighed dramatically. "Then Mom decided she needed to go clubbing."

"She's going to a reception at the university," McGee corrected her sourly.

"Same difference," Sarah shrugged. "Anyway, since she wasn't going to be here, I was reminded that you need a babysitter. I, being the mature, responsible adult that I am, volunteered. Oh, wait. No. That's not what happened. I didn't volunteer; I was _volun-told_ to stay here and watch you instead. Do you believe in spirit possession?"

McGee scowled then looked at her with a puzzled expression. Sarah could be viciously sharp and wantonly obtuse, depending on her mood; however, she rarely stumped her brother with questions. In this instance, he was not even able to follow her thought pattern. She spied his confusion and explained.

"I'm talking about the possibility of ghosts possessing people," she said in a conspiratorial tone. "Not sure you've picked up on it yet, but Mom's gotten a little surly recently. I'm thinking it's Dad channeling in from the beyond. Remember how he used to…"

"No," McGee said flatly cutting her off as he rolled his eyes at her wide, pleased grin.

"So now you've forgotten him entirely?" she chuckled then winced as she heard the words tumble over her lips. "Oh, sorry, Tim. I didn't mean it like that. I wasn't thinking. I was kidding, and I just…"

The discomfort she felt was evidence on her face and in her posture as she quickly buried her mortified expression in her hands. McGee sighed, unable to let her linger like this.

"It's okay," he assured her. "I know what you meant. I was saying no to your theory of possession. First off, there's no such thing as ghosts or possession. Next, even if there was, there's no evidence to suggest her behavior is at all like the Admiral. He'd be telling me to toughen up, stop relying on a bunch of women to take care of me, and to get my bag packed so I could go back to my apartment." McGee scoffed at the thought. "I might actually agree with him this time."

Sarah offered him a weary yet understanding look. His version did sound more like their father. The Admiral practiced tough love with both of his children, but he had a different set of standards for his son than he used on his daughter. First, and in Sarah's eyes foremost, was the way the children referred to their father. When speaking about him, her brother always referred to the man by his rank and their father seemed to expect that. The only time she ever heard her brother call the man Dad was when she would eavesdrop on their conversations (which were most often lectures) when her brother was permitted to speak freely (which did not happen often).

For her, the man her brother usually called Admiral was always just Dad. Yes, in the company of others (particularly others in uniform), she was supposed to refer to him as Admiral, but she broke that rule often without consequences. Her father, she knew, had a chauvinistic and arrogant approach to child rearing which had worked in Sarah's advantage more often than not. Their father had appreciated those flares in her temper, which alternately disappointed and worried her mother and brother. While her father never approved of any disrespect Sarah showed her parents, he never seemed to mind when she pointed that boldness at others—behavior he often chided her brother for not displaying and suggested he learn from his little sister. With his son, the man had been relentless in his criticism, stingy with his praise, and rarely outwardly impressed, always pushing him to do more and do it better.

That gave Sarah a renewed pang of pity for her brother and kick-started her compassionate side.

"You're barely well enough to feed yourself when someone puts the food in front of you," Sarah said with a worried expression. "There's no way we're leaving you alone. And, for the record, I'm certain that right now, even Dad wouldn't call for attention on deck from you."

"No kidding," McGee scoffed as he corrected her understanding of military protocol. "It would be your job to do that. He was an officer, Sarah. He didn't call for attention; attention would be called for him. The last time the Admiral had to call for attention, I was four and he was a Commander."

She cocked her head to the side as a question she never thought to ask came to mind.

"What did you call him?" she asked. "Back then, I mean. Now that I think about it, were your first words _'Dada'_ or _'Lieutenant Commander'_? You know, that might explain why you've always been closer to Mom. Her name was easier to say when you were learning to speak. I only remember you calling him Admiral, but he got that rank when I was like three so…"

"You were five," McGee corrected her swiftly. She raised her eyebrows. "He made Admiral in '91. You were five and I was 13. You and I didn't go to the ceremony because you had chicken pox so I stayed home to watch you."

She snorted curtly at him for his tart response.

"Wow, did I scowl, grumble, cut you off and bitch in every conversation we had that day?" she asked superiorly as she folded her arms. McGee eyed her warily as he shook his head slightly. "No? So tonight you're not behaving even as well as I did when I was a sick five-year-old. Fascinating how you're the one everyone credits with having manners, _Timmy_."

McGee smirked then sighed regretfully. He didn't mean to snap at her. He knew he had been ornery since getting out of the hospital. It was an adjustment leaving the good painkillers behind. The ones he had now worked adequately, but taking pills took longer than having a nurse descend angelically at the exact moment when the pain started to peak. Acclimating to the new regiment of medication was making sleep difficult—prolonged periods of it at least—but he did not undervalue being out of the hospital. He could wear his own clothing (granted, it took him 20 minutes of struggling on his own to dress that morning, but he managed it—still no joy on the shoes though); he could walk anywhere he wanted (as long as he remained inside and on the first floor and had the energy); he could watch whatever channel he wanted to on the TV (assuming there was anything worth watching—he hadn't discovered anything yet); and (should his sister ever bring it downstairs to him) he could occupy his time using his laptop.

After that swift internal inventory, he decided that all in all, life was looking up so he decided to shelve his grumpy attitude.

"Sorry," he apologized. "What were you asking me?"

She grinned quickly in victory and launched back into her discussion.

"I was asking whether every time Dad got a promotion he sat you down and told you he had a new identity you needed to learn," Sarah said. "Is that where your interest in secret identities, spies, and sleuthing started?"

McGee mouth drew tight into a taut line as she began to cackle loudly and convulsively. Tears spawned by mirth leaked from the corners of her eyes as his jaw grew rigid from being her source of entertainment (yet again). On some level, he enjoyed the teasing. It felt real and normal, like maybe the room didn't have a loaned hospital bed in it and the dresser wasn't a small pharmacy; like there wasn't a scabbed over incision nine inches long running from the notch around his trachea to the end of his sternum; and like (if they were still children) he could have bolted from the upright bed effortlessly and painlessly to chase her from the room.

Except that wasn't the reality. He was weak; he was still a patient and nothing but time was going to change that. Whether everything returned to what passed for normal in his world remained to be seen.

Still, normal or not, he felt compelled by a lifetime of obligation, to correct his sister's misconception of the name used for his father. True, it was a formal relationship (as far as he remembered) even on its best days; therefore, there were agreed upon rules of engagement between them.

"It is a sign of respect to address high ranking officers by their title regardless of your familiarity with them," McGee said, reciting for her his grandfather's explanation for why McGee wasn't to call his father Dad. "A century ago, grave punishment was allotted to those who did not obey the rules of conduct and proper comportment. In 1852, Admiral Michael Copper had a sailor, who happened to be his nephew, keelhauled for not addressing him by his title when he encountered his uncle in a tavern. You understand what keelhauling is? I'm talking about the original definition of literally tying the sailor to a rope that is looped under the ship then throwing the man overboard on the opposite side. He then gets dragged under the keel. Keep in mind that the hull was likely covered in barnacles so the sailor would be severely lacerated while in salt water and perhaps got decapitated or drown."

She groaned and growled loudly as she gnashed her teeth at the dissertation. For someone who was greatly unlike their father in some vital ways, her brother at times sounded eerily like him. She glared at him furiously as she tried to determine if he was telling her this merely to be a pain or if he simply couldn't help himself after a lifetime spent in such close proximity to navy rules and protocol.

"Tell me again why you never joined the Navy even though you've been so successfully brainwashed by them," Sarah remarked.

What answer he may have given, she never found out as someone else offered an opinion in the moment of silence following the question.

"Well," Tony's voice sounded from the doorway, "a crippling fear of boats is a pretty good reason for him to avoid life at sea. The Navy can be a little picky about their sailors always being seasick."

Sarah smirked with pleasure and challenge as she eyed her brother's work colleague.

"Dad started out as a naval aviator," Sarah offered. "Tim's doesn't have an issue with planes."

"He has an issue with heights," Tony pointed out as he shrugged. "And even if he didn't, sometimes those Navy plane need to land on ships, ergo…."

McGee groaned from his bed as he sensed where the discussion was going.

"She's only egging you on to make you quote _Top Gun_ ," McGee said. Anger shot from his sister's eyes and was as close to an admission as he was going to get that he was right. "It's her favorite movie. She tells everyone her favorite is _Sense and Sensibility_ , but really it's not."

"Tim!" Sarah growled. "You promised you would never tell anyone!"

"It must be the medication," he mumbled as he turned his eyes away from her furious glare as he tried to swiftly change the subject. "Tony, what are you doing here?"

His fellow agent smirked at the way McGee buckled and retreated from the dynamo that was his baby sister. Being an only child, Tony never understood the whole sibling thing, but he found it damn entertaining to watch sometimes. McGee's incarnation of it intrigued him in particular as his partner was the older brother and the one who was the armed federal agent, yet it often seemed that the feisty little sis was the dangerous one.

"Why am I here?" Tony smiled painfully. "Well, my father called me and told me his plans for tonight. Need I say more?"

"Maybe you should, depending on what he said specifically about his plans," McGee said cautiously as he raised the back of the bed up so he could sit up straighter. "Are you chaperoning them?"

"No, but you can relax," Tony replied with a stern look that spoke volumes about the seriousness of the conversation he and Senior had held. "I made it clear to my Dad that he needed to be a gentleman, the sort that my mom would recognize and approve of. No intrigue. No excitement. No… felonies."

McGee relaxed his posture as he settled back to a reclining position. While his mother going out with the elder DiNozzo did leave him feeling uneasy, the look of jealousy on Tony's face delighted him (or maybe that was the lingering effect of his painkillers). However, the thought of a jealous Tony tagging along to watching over the couple did genuinely make McGee smile.

"So I'm here just as a reminder when he picks her up so that he knows to bring her home at a respectable hour," Tony said. "Also, I offered to be your security detail for the evening."

Both McGee's looked at him with questioning eyes. Tony shrugged.

"Penny mentioned you were in a bit of an ugly mood for the last day or so and hinted you could a few hours at charm school," he said puffing out his chest. "So naturally, it just makes sense that the most charming person you know should be tutoring you."

"So when is Ducky arriving?" McGee asked and earned a snort of laughter from his sister.

"Funny, McGrouch," Tony shot back then leveled his eyes on Sarah as she grinned triumphantly. "She also mentioned that little Miss Sarah wasn't mature enough to not antagonize you right now and that good old Grams is tired of playing referee. In that vein, she's waiting in her car outside for you, Sarah. She's taking you out to dinner to fix your attitude while Tim stays grounded here with me. Might want to grab an umbrella. I think it's going to rain."

Sarah took no time ditching her previous duty as babysitter. She pecked her brother briefly on the cheek, wagged a finger at Tony and uttered a breezy "behave" at both of them as she departed the townhouse. Tony nodded in her wake, appreciating her enthusiasm in abandoning her family. He was preparing to make a comment about McGee repelling women when he spied the serious look on his teammate's face. After seeing it, what McGee said next came as no surprise.

"You're not here just so Sarah can have dinner with Penny," McGee surmised. "Boss tell you to get my statement?"

Tony smirked then scoffed and opened his mouth to dodge he question but decided to do so would be pointless. He looked at his partner guiltily as he pulled a digital recorder from his pocket then rested it on the bedside table near McGee. He hit the record switch.

"Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, June 2, 6 p.m., 265 Wyman Park, Baltimore Maryland, presently the dwelling of Carol McGee and family," he cleared his throat and made the vocal identification. "Speaking to Special Agent Timothy. A couple things as we start, you are not under investigation. You considered a witness in the incident occurring at Marine Camp Foxtrot, Helmand Province, Afghanistan, at approximately 5:45 a.m. on May 11th of this year. Do you understand the purpose and scope of this discussion?"

McGee swallowed then cleared his throat.

"Yes," he replied. "But I can't tell you anything, Tony. I don't remember what happened. The last thing I'm certain I remember is being at the office, leaving Abby's lab-that was at the end of April. The next thing I'm sure of after that is my mom being in my hospital room while telling me to wake up."

Tony nodded. He expected as much. There had been little chance McGee would remember the actual attack on the Comm Center. Tony hoped, however, with a little careful probing he might recall something of interest about other events during his stint overseas that might answer the question of why the gunmen went to his sleeping quarters at the base. There still appeared to be no direct connection between the computer security breech that had been McGee's assignment and the shooting that nearly took his life.

"That's fine," Tony said easily. "We've got the timeline of events from that morning locked down pretty good. Between ballistics and the accounts of those who were outside the Comm Center, we don't need any more input on that actual morning. I'm just crossing 'I's and dotting 'T's on the days leading up to that one."

McGee nodded, taking in the veiled truth without so much as a blink of suspicion. Tony would have patted himself on the back if not for the fact he was using his slight-of-hand questioning style (the one he thought the most devious) on one of the people he honestly trusted the most in the world, someone who had even (on occasion) saved his own life, not to mention who hooked up his primo wireless home theater system for free two years earlier.

"Take it easy," he said sensing McGee's tension. "There's a couple things you should know. No one is going to ask you to testify against the guy who shot you because he's dead. No one is going to fault you for your actions that morning—they were already determined to be righteous, like textbook perfect. They'll probably teach what happened during those 15 seconds to our incoming agents at FLETC. Anything you remember at all is just bonus material for us. Five guys were in the room when all hell broke loose, and you're the only one who still has a pulse. There were 15 shots from three guns fired in that little 10 x 20 space. The fact that you survived is considered a miracle. It was a hornets' nest of lead in there, McGee."

"Any of the spent rounds mine?" McGee asked. Tony nodded and held up three fingers. "Did I hit anyone?"

"Yeah, you killed one of the bad guys," Tony replied simply and watched his teammate's face fall as expected.

While Tony could read some relief in his partner's shoulders that the man he killed was not one of the good guys, the fact he killed anyone at all was going to take time for him to process. The senior agent had seen this from his junior partner before. Tony knew of only one way to help push him through the waves of doubt and guilt that were begin to crash around in his head: throw him a life vest of facts.

"You did the right thing," Tony assured him. "You killed the guy who nearly killed you. He was a terrorist. If not for you putting him down first, he'd have turned around and probably killed at least one, but more likely the next two, Marines who stormed the Comm Center. One is a 19-year-old kid from Wisconsin who sends most of his pay home to help his single mom pay rent and support his two teenage brothers; the other is a guy from Florida who just went home on leave last weekend since his wife gave birth to their first child. Because of what you did, that's two families who can still get text messages and phone calls and visits from their loved one rather getting back a flag draped coffin. You did your job; you did good, Tim."

McGee swallowed hard and nodded his thanks. He had not killed many people in his career, but he carried all of them with him in some way. He wasn't sure it should make such a difference, but at least hearing the man he killed was a terrorist did make accepting he took the man's life easier.

Whether any of the rest of what Tony said about the Marines who were saved in the process was true, McGee did not know. It was possible Tony was embellishing the details to ease the blow for him, but McGee didn't think so. It would be too easy to verify the information—once McGee was feeling up to thinking about using a computer again. That realization deflated his previous sense that he might be able to take care of himself, even for a few hours. He couldn't remember the last time he had not felt up to working on a computer… In fact, he wasn't sure that had ever happened.

"Tony, why was I in Afghanistan?" McGee asked as he scrunched his brow. "Was it to do with a terrorism case or… smuggling?"

The thought came to him suddenly, like a spark arcing from an ungrounded outlet. He felt his heart quicken.

"Smuggling?" Tony repeated then shook his head. "No, computer security breech stemming from civilian contractors at the camp. Burley was following a lead and needed a geek to do those things you do with the keyboard and the numbers and stuff. Vance sent you since it was a field assignment. Why did you think it was smuggling?"

McGee shrugged (or tried to) then winced at the effort. He did not know why he thought the investigation involved smuggling. He did not recall being at the base or doing anything with a computer system. The word smuggling just shot to the front of his mind and floated there in a tantalizing, almost taunting, way.

"Was there a ship?" McGee asked. That question, he knew, was prompted by a definite image in his mind: an aircraft carrier. What he didn't know was whether it was a memory or simply an association with the word float.

"You arrived in Afghanistan via a hop off the Ronald Reagan before it left the area," Tony nodded. "Then you were twice a guest of the USS Harry Truman."

"Why twice?" he asked.

"Once as a patient," Tony said, figuring he didn't need to give many details about that visit. "Once for dinner. The captain and a visiting admiral requested your presence the day before the assault happened."

McGee nodded as he mulled that offering. Tony waited patiently, hoping there would be a comment or a question that would allow him to probe his probie's recollection more. The smuggling comment worried him. There was not a single smuggling aspect to Burley's investigation, which told the senior agent McGee's memory of the whole time overseas was obviously compromised.

"Admiral Curtis?" McGee guessed eventually. "I can't figure who the captain was, but it must have Admiral Curtis who I went to see on the carrier if it was for dinner and not part of the case. Makes sense. I figured he would contact me. That was around May 10th, right?"

Tony nodded eagerly, answering at least the question if not agreeing with the full assessment.

"Gold star on the date, but not on your dining companion," he revealed. "Why did you think it was Curtis you went to see?"

"It was the Admiral's birthday," McGee said sullenly.

"You know the birthday of the Chaplain of the Navy?" Tony raised his eyebrows as he touched McGee's hair gingerly. "How do you keep that kind of useless trivia in your head? Is that why it's kind of egg-shaped? Does that help with the retention?"

McGee scoffed and rolled his eyes as he leaned carefully out of Tony's reach.

"Wrong flag officer," he corrected. "My father's birthday was May 10th. Uncle Warren… I mean Admiral Curtis is a close friend of our family. I figured he would contact me around my father's birthday to talk. If not him, who did I go see?"

Tony hesitated. He knew he shouldn't say, that he should leave this to Gibbs—or perhaps even Dr. Cranston or Ducky—but the opportunity was sitting in front of him begging for a response.

"Admiral Porter," Tony replied and watched carefully for a reaction.

He was not disappointed..

He got one. A definite one, but not the one he expected. Tony had heard Bishop's rundown of her discussion with Ducky. He knew about the suspicions regarding the Tiger Cruise and the deadly crime that might have prompted an NIS investigation. None of those prepared him for the look of disgust and irritation that washed across McGee's face or the dismissive and disrespectful tone he heard from his mouth.

"Now I know you're messing with me," McGee scoffed and shook his head. "There's no way I got on a transport to go have dinner with _that guy_. Tony, I'd have rather stayed in a tin box in the middle of a war zone than spend just five minutes listening to that self-important, smarmy, disingenuous eel."

Tony blinked. Eel, he wondered. Of all the insults and possible epithets he should know having grown up on Navy bases, the guy picked the words _smarmy_ , _disingenuous_ and _eel_. Tony shook his head and despaired over his partner's Boy Scout approach to speaking offensively.

"Well," he scoffed rather than critique McGee's outburst out loud, "you have some strong feelings about him. Careful with the stuffy words and aquatic life references. You might say something real people can understand."

McGee rolled his eyes and sneered.

"Porter's is one of those guys who was ambitious in all the wrong ways," McGee said. "He's about looking good rather than being good. He rode my father's coattails."

"Porter?" Tony repeated, finding the cold use of the man's surname without rank odd.

The absence of the man's title was telling. When McGee first started working with Gibbs' team, before his family background was known to all (which took several years to learn due to McFortKnox's proclivity toward locking up details about his personal life), Tony had worried he would need to teach the kid military protocol and how to deal with officers who lived and breathed it. He had been pleasantly surprised when McGee had been able to recognize the proper rank insignia of Navy and Marine personnel and that he knew to address those in the military without any embarrassing gaffs or required coaching sessions. So, it took Tony by surprise to hear, particularly after overhearing his conversation with Sarah earlier, McGee talk this way.

"That's a rather strong and allegedly informed opinion," Tony noted in a calculated fashion. "I'm sensing some anger, young Skywalker. Why? Did he beat your father at a game of Battleship once or something?"

McGee merely shook his head and set his jaw firmly in a clench. Upon seeing it, Tony was firmly in Ducky's camp that McGee had no fear of the man but also had no patience for him. It was extremely out of character for his partner. The only other person he had heard receive this level of disrespect from McGee was Leona Phelps, an investor who ruined countless military families' finances after shady deals left many of them broke and forced to start over after losing their entire savings.

Tony was about to pursue the foundation of McGee's ire when his own source of occasional frustration and lockjaw expressions appeared in the doorway. Anthony DiNozzo, Sr, was .decked out in an Italian suit, silk shirt and hand-crafted tie, along with shoes shined to a dazzling luster. Senior grinned widely as he stepped forward to greet them.

"Junior, you are here," DiNozzo said as he embraced his son then winked in McGee's direction. "I wondered earlier if you were kidding about being here to see us off and make sure Carol got home on time. Any excuse to hang out with your partner in crime, I guess. How are you, Tim? You're looking better all the time. A couple more days away from the hospital and you'll get the color back in your cheeks."

"Actually, that pasty shade is his normal color," Tony noted. "What are you doing here, Dad? I thought that other guy was bringing Carol to the reception, and you were just making sure she got a ride home."

"Change of plans," DiNozzo continued to grin. "I had lunch with Griff this afternoon. After hearing what Prince Al has in mind for this project, Griff wanted to get a jump on talking to a few other investors before anyone else got their foot in the door tonight. He's having dinner with them right now so I said I would bring Carol myself. Griff will meet us at the reception in the next hour or so. We'll mingle a little then call it a night. Griff is normally a night owl, so I'll believe it when I see it if he leaves with us."

McGee nodded stiffly. He looked at DiNozzo's sharp suit, his flashy watch and could smell the expensive scent of his cologne. The man must have noticed the scrutiny because he sighed and turned to his son with a request.

"Say, Junior, could you do me a favor?" DiNozzo said smoothly. "It's starting to rain out there, but I left my umbrella in the car. Run out and get the umbrella for me so Carol can make it to the car dry. Tell Alphonse who you are so he lets you grab it."

"Alphonse?" Tony repeated.

"My driver," Senior replied. "I thought it best to get a limo for the night. I'm not overly familiar with the streets of Baltimore. I decided to spring for a car and driver rather than get lost and be late. Hurry so you don't get soaked yourself. I'd have Alphonse bring it to me, but he's double parked so he can't leave the car."

Tony groaned then hung his head. He slouched then dutifully shuffled out of the room muttering something about only doing this for Carol's sake. DiNozzo then stepped closer to the bed and fixed McGee with an understanding expression.

"I saw that look, and I know what it means, Tim," DiNozzo said confidently. "I respect where it comes from and the man giving it to me. That's why I want to assure you that you don't have any reason to worry. Your mother is a serious woman who wouldn't fall for my Prince Charming act; however, it's my default setting around beautiful and intelligent women so what can I say: I brought my A game despite knowing I was not going to get anywhere with it."

McGee offered him a noncommittal expression. He could hear sincerity in the man's voice, but he also knew enough about DiNozzo to have reason to doubt his ears.

"Right," Senior chuckled as he nodded. "I can see why you'd be a skeptic. I know my reputation might make you think otherwise at times, but I do enjoy the simple, platonic company of a woman—an intellectual equal who can converse about the common experiences of our generation. Your mother is a beautiful woman, but she is too smart to fall for any of my lines. Let that be a lesson to you: Beauty may fade but brilliance shines forever."

McGee nodded. He'd always thought that… somewhat. He believed intelligence in women was a sexy, but he was actually torn on the beauty aspect. He was agreed with something his grandfather, Admiral Nelson McGee, once told him in reference to his beloved wife, Penny.

"I was always taught that the heart has no wrinkles," McGee said, uttering his grandfather's wisdom.

DiNozzo nodded frankly and got a nostalgic look in his eyes.

"You're wise for your age, Tim," he sighed. "I nearly made a mistake of letting a beautiful and brilliant woman get away from me long ago because my roving eyes wondered if there might be a prettier flower in the vast garden the world has to offer. I was young and foolish, and nowhere near as wise as you, apparently. You see, she was a pretty girl but not someone who was worried about her appearance. She said to me she would embrace every wrinkle and gray hair she ever sprouted because they would be badges of honor. Well, just the thought of getting old gave me second thoughts about where my life was going and who I would be with when I got there. Always young beautiful seemed a lot more fun than someone who wouldn't fight the inevitable. Frankly, she had this inner confidence that I found intimidating."

The older man sighed as he looked down at his shoes but a smile lingered on his lips.

"We had been seeing each other for a while, but I was starting to wonder if maybe I was missing out, that there were other fish in the ocean I might try," he continued. "I told her as much, and she gave me an ultimatum: All in or all out. Like an idiot, I walked away. We were in Central Park and I just said fine, have it your way. Then off I went. I heard her gasp, the way a woman does when she's holding in a sob. That sound cut me so deeply that I froze; I couldn't believe I had been the one to cause her that kind of pain. It broke my heart and that's when I realized the mistake I'd made. I turned around to apologize, but she was already gone. She had sprinted as far and fast from me as possible. So, I took off after her, pushing aside anyone who got in my way. One of them was a New York City cop. He grabbed me and was going to arrest me until I explained what was going on. Well, he could see I was a man on a mission so he gave me his whistle so I could clear my path."

The older man smiled wistfully. McGee could not help but mimic the expression as he listened with rapt attention.

"Did you catch up to her?" McGee wondered as he heard the sound of the front door slamming and Tony's now wet shoes squeaking on the floor.

DiNozzo grinned proudly

"Well, you work with our son, so the answer is yes," he nodded. "Tim, take it from a man who has lived a life of many bold and many bad decisions: If you ever find someone you truly love, never let your head or your ego or your fear or even the law get in-between the two of you. I've heard how Gibbs likes to teach his rules. Well, Anthony D. DiNozzo doesn't believe in rules, but I do have _lessons_ to impart. Here's number one: If you love her, run after her."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Tony stretched his shoulders as he yawned dramatically. The morning had come early, particularly since he had an hour-long drive home from Baltimore in order to get to his apartment and get ready for the day. He offered to marry Bishop when she placed coffee in front of him. He did not even mind her wrinkled nose declining of the proposal.

"I'll marry Jake instead if you'd prefer," Tony smiled happily at his coffee. "We're allowed to go for the rainbow now after all. Although, maybe I should just marry this cup because it really is what I love most of all today."

"What did you do last night?" she asked with a narrowed gaze. "Or is it something I just don't want to know?"

"Spent the night with McGee," he yawned again and caught a wide-eyed, chin-hanging expression from her. "I mean, I was at his mother's townhouse. I stopped in to see him and to check on my father, who was taking his mother to a reception. While they were out, we started watching a movie. He fell asleep before Alec Baldwin got on the sub. Missed all the great Scott Glenn lines even. _The hardest part about playing chicken is knowing when to flinch_."

He grinned proudly at his impersonation but did not receive rave reviews from his audience.

"Is Scott Glenn the name of the character dressed as a chicken?" she guessed and shrugged as his impersonation fell flat with her.

Tony gaped then scoffed.

"He's the actor playing U.S. submarine Captain Bart Mancuso," Tony informed her in an exasperated fashion. "Come on, Ellie! Even Ziva would have gotten that one. They need to teach this stuff in the Academy at basic training. As I was saying, I went to check on my Dad and McGee, but I sort of fell asleep, too. I woke up around 5 sleeping in the chair in McGee's room."

Bishop smirked as Gibbs appeared from the back hallway. He carried his coffee, which when added to the cup now sitting on his desk spoke of an extra early morning for him.

"You get tucked in and told a bedtime story last night, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked.

"No, Boss," he replied puffing his chest out and deciding that finding a blanket draped over him that morning did not count as being tucked in. "Something happen that got you in here early?"

"Dead petty officer," he said and received blank stares from them. "Arlington PD called after finding him in a dumpster behind a nightclub. They think he's been there for at least two days. Ducky and Palmer are on route. Grab your gear, Bishop."

"Boss?" Tony asked with a questioning look. "We're on a case…. Aren't we?"

Gibbs sighed and paused in his departure.

"Yeah," he said as he looked to his female agent. "She and I are going to that crime scene now."

"So Sec Nav ordered the security investigation closed and the same with the attack at Foxtrot?" Tony scoffed then scowled as he bent over to grab his backpack. "That's great. That's… why I love politics. You know, in the movie, Jack Ryan didn't have anyone one who…"

Gibbs looked at him with a stern and steely gaze.

"Where are you going?" Gibbs asked.

"Arlington for the dead petty officer," Tony said slowly, wondering if he had not heard his boss correctly when he announced the ready, set, go sequence.

"No, Bishop and I are on that," he said turned to he look at Bishop firmly. "You found an open case file that needs to be closed, but I can't put a probationary agent on a cold case when I'm a man down already."

He nodded as he spoke, his thanks for unearthing the nugget of information evidence in his vividly blue eyes. She returned the gesture and kept her smile brief and professional. Gibbs then turned to his senior field agent and sported a less than impressed look.

"You look like hell, DiNozzo," Gibbs observed. "You've been out straight helping close out the Afghanistan investigation over the last few weeks. You did good with that, so you've earned a break."

"A break?" Tony repeated as he dropped his bag back to the floor. "I don't have any leave scheduled right now, Boss."

"Yeah, I know, but I also need you to recharge your batteries for a bit," Gibbs said. "Like you said, I can't let you take any leave right now, but I'm putting you on something that's not high priority. I've got cold case file on my desk. Dig into that for a bit."

Tony blinked but kept his voice and his expression neutral.

"You sure?" he asked, hoping he was both hearing and understanding the man correctly.

Gibbs offered him a half grin as he nodded. He lowered his voice as he passed by.

"Jack Ryan was a Marine," he said. "He had some good lines in that movie (and the book), too."

"My favorite line of Ryan's that Baldwin delivers, other than when he impersonates Connery—a Russian Captain with a Scottish accent—is when he says to himself…," Tony began to reply quietly.

" _Next time, Jack, write a damn memo_ ," Gibbs guessed accurately as he headed toward the elevator then elevated his tone. "I want one on my desk by the end the week."

"You got it, _Greer_ ," Tony said thinking his boss could do the James Earl Jones character justice. "I mean Gibbs. I'll have that written up for you soon."

Tony smirked at the exchange. Gibbs had delivered the order as soundly and convincingly as any other order he'd ever given, yet it was evident this was an off the menu undertaking. Tony kept his face bland as the rest of his team departed, but it was a fight. The fleeting look he and Gibbs exchanged wasn't quite Rick and Louie at the end of _Casablanca_ , but it wasn't far off Baldwin and Jones. Tony crossed to Gibbs desk and found the slim file that sparked this new angle to their now closed case. He cast his eyes briefly to McGee's desk, now covered in cards that other employees were dropping off in the hopes one of the team drop them off to him now that he was out of the hospital. Tony scooped them up and tucked them into the top drawer of the desk. McGee was getting on a plane in two hours to fly to Dallas for the bulk of his recovery. Tony would see about mailing the cards to him in a week's time.

He then turned his eyes to the old NIS file and the new documents received from the San Francisco PD. He was most pleased to see a shipping manifest that confirmed the physical evidence was now in the garage downstairs. Abby would be back at work the following day, he nodded. This would keep them both busy for a while.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _New Orleans: Inn on Bourbon—hotel lobby_**

Abby waited for the desk clerk to finish charging her government card as she checked out of the hotel the day after her participation in the trial ended. Her testimony, both the initial and cross examination and the rebuttal, had taken longer than anticipated. She was pleased with the outcome, which was more than she could say for the results of her recent string of phone calls to McGee's sister.

With that in mind, she opened her address book and again attempted to call Sarah. As it did previously, the phone rang several times unanswered. Abby huffed but kept her voice friendly and even as she left her message.

"Hi, Sarah, it's Abby Scuito again," she said into the automated voice mail system. "I hope everything is okay. I left you a message a few days ago asking how I can reach your brother by phone. I got your text response that my message was too garbled and staticy for you to understand. Not sure what happened there; maybe a solar flare, but I didn't see news about one. Anyway, I'm just leaving the message again. I'm looking for the best number to use to call Tim. I've been out of town for a few days, but I'm flying back to D.C. now. Hope to hear from you. Tell your brother I hope he's feeling better and that I'll be calling him soon, or if he feels up to it, tell him to call me. He knows my number. Thanks for your help."

Abby sighed as she disconnected. She had left Sarah a message as she left DC and another after arriving in New Orleans days earlier. She thought it would be best to use a direct family connection to reach McGee rather than rely on her office sources initially. However, now it seemed she might have to ask Tony for the information. She recalled his advice that she back off and give McGee his space during his recovery, but Abby could not think of a worse time to do that. He was going to need support and assistance. She was offering both. Why Sarah was being unreliable was hard to understand, but Abby figured it had a lot to do with the shock of nearly losing her brother. She was willing to cut her some slack… then go completely around her to get what she wanted and needed, which was a means to check on McGee herself.

Not that a phone number was going to be necessary at this point. She felt badly that she had not talked to him since he was discharged, but she planned to rectify that after landing back in her home time zone. She smiled at that plan. She was going to get the address from Gibbs of where Carol was staying and go see McGee herself. As long as there were no flight delays, she would be home by 2 that afternoon.

With that thought making her heart feel light, she smiled and finished checking out of the hotel as she prepared to head to the airport. She was electronically filing her hotel receipt in her phone when a familiar, drawling voice caught her attention.

"I felt it, like a change in the weather, a break in the clouds, a cool breeze bringing relief to this scorched city," Special Agent Dwayne Cassius Pride said as he leaned on a support column behind Abby in the grand lobby of the hotel. "I knew if I investigated, I would find you here, waiting for me."

"Pride?" she beamed as she turned then threw her arms around him in greeting. "Where have you been? I was here all week and you never returned my calls."

He slowly shrugged his apology. His work had taken him into Florida and more than that he could not say. He was pleased her testimony had gone well and the trial had ended in a conviction. One less scumbag to chase in the future, he thought proudly.

"You're leaving already?" he questioned as he spotted her bags at her feet. "Abby, this is your hometown. You can't just drop in for a few days of work then leave again. All work and no play? They'll revoke your citizenship—I don't care how many of your granddaddies wrestled gators in the bayou."

She grinned sadly, wishing partly to stay to visit more of her family, but knowing she needed to head back to her other family.

"I got to see a few of my cousins, two of my aunts and one of my uncles," she replied. "But I need to get home. I'm needed there, too."

"Let me at least give you a lift to the airport," he offered as he took her bags and started toward the door. "We'll do a quid pro quo. I'll be your chauffer, and you be my messenger."

"Your wish," she bowed her head and put her hand over her heart. "My command."

Pride smiled as they stepped into the blistering, damp heat of the early morning. Her pigtails instantly drooped.

"It's very simple: When you see him, you tell Jethro to give me a call," Pride said meaningfully. "I hear he's looking into something from the past that Mike Franks started but never finished. I might have something for him."

"Gibbs is working on a cold case?" Abby asked curiously. "He's been working on McGee's case, I mean the attack in Afghanistan. That's just about all he's been working on for the last few weeks."

"Don't you worry, Abby darlin'," Pride assured her. "This won't distract him none. I just have some _cerveza_ fueled intel from a little fishing Mike and I did on his beach a few years ago. Just have Jethro call me when he's got a free minute. This isn't the kind of thing you drop on a brother in email or over the phone when he's not asking to hear it."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	17. Chapter 17

**_A/N:_** _You all are just too kind. The numbers of those reading this astound me and the reviews are greatly appreciated. So… since I am currently sick in bed, I figured I'd be productive and post another chapter for you. Have a great (and healthy) weekend, friends. (As always, pardon the typos and rambling prose—I've been fighting a fever while writing this installment)._

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Dallas—July 19, 1 a.m._**

 _The room was dim; the floor was gray; the walls a shade lighter so that the convergence of the two was barely noticeable. A chair sat in the middle of the room and a coffin lay open a few feet in front of it. McGee approached the casket and looked down to see his father._

 _"Dad?" McGee croaked._

 _A man's eyes opened._

 _"Back to this, huh?" John McGee scoffed. "You're not supposed to be here right now."_

 _"Where exactly is this, sir?" McGee asked looking at the barren room._

 _"I ask the questions here, Tim," the Admiral said. "Why are you here?"_

 _"I don't even know where here is," McGee answered shaking his head. "I don't remember getting here. I just found myself here and saw you… there. What is all this? Why are you… in there?"_

 _"You've been told that already," the Admiral said sternly. "I expect more from you than this."_

 _The Admiral's sharp gaze pierced McGee and caused him to lower his chin and look at the misty floor. Dozens of questions churned in his mind, but he could not grab hold of any one of them long enough to put them into words. His mind was cloudy, and there was an odd fluttering feeling in his chest similar to how he felt anytime the Admiral punished him for failing to live up to his expectations._

 _"Don't hang your head like some sulking school kid; be a man," the Admiral said gruffly. "That's how we left things: You told me that you're satisfied with the consequences of your decisions, that you've made good choices, and that you're not just running and hiding from problems. You told me that you solve cases. Was that a lie?"_

 _"No, sir," McGee said as he lifted his eyes to look at the man defiantly. The uneasy feeling in his chest began to radiate outward and send waves of jitters into his limbs. His chest felt tight as the air grew heavy. "I didn't lie, and I'm not hiding from anything."_

 _"Seems like you are," the Admiral scoffed as he looked away in disgust. "You missed something, and you know it. You need to get your act together, and finish what you started."_

 _"Finish what I started?" McGee gaped in confusion. "I don't understand. What do you mean? What did I start?"_

 _McGee looked more carefully at the man. The Admiral was in his service dress blue uniform, but the acres of ribbons that normally adorned his chest were less prominent. They were properly aligned, but many were missing. McGee noted that the man's admiral stars were absent as well._

 _"This isn't you," McGee said as he stepped back from the coffin. "Dad, this isn't right."_

 _"Nothing's changed, son," the Admiral replied. "We are who we always were. Sometimes, we forget that. You need to remember. You need to finish what you started, Tim."_

 _"I don't know what I started," McGee admitted as fear crept into his voice and the room grew darker. "There was a case, but someone else solved it. I wasn't there."_

 _"Yes, you were," the Admiral insisted as the lid of the coffin began to close. "You remember, Tim. They don't know what you know. You need to show them what you found."_

 _"I didn't find anything," McGee said. "I can't remember any of it."_

 _"Don't give up now, son," the Admiral's voice said before all sound disappeared and the room fell into an eerier pitch blackness as McGee opened his mouth to scream for his father to come back._

McGee gasped as he shook himself awake. It took several long and panic-filled seconds with his heart pounding and sweat coursing down his neck before he realized where he was: the guest room at his mother's home in Dallas. The shadowy walls slowly came into focus as the recurring dream slipped back into the dark corners of his mind. As usually, most of the details disappeared quickly, but a sinking feeling in his chest lingered. The dream was a frequent visitor during the nearly 10 weeks since a bullet put his life on this unexpected detour.

He pressed his hand over the rift in his flesh that stretched from the top of his sternum to the end of it. He was mostly healed now, several vicious scars that would stay with him forever were all that remained of the ordeal that began one May morning ten thousand miles away. He could feel his heart hammering beneath the largest of his scars as he tried to control his breathing. The last thing he needed was to have an asthma attack. He could handle the physiological effects if one did occur; however, it was the possibility of waking his mother during it and scaring her into thinking he needed a return visit to the hospital that he could not face.

He listened sharply for noises in the house and was pleased not to hear her footsteps approaching his room. When the tightness in his lungs abated, he sighed with relief then grabbed his phone—the one he finally acquired to replace the one still apparently in an evidence bag back in DC. What he initially intended to do when he lifted his cell from the nightstand he forgot as he saw a message that had arrived about 20 minutes earlier. He smirked as he read it:

 _Help. I'm trapped in a dungeon by an evil sorceress._

McGee decided that, despite the hour, it was likely the "damsel" was still awake so he responded: _Don't fight; ask her what she wants_.

Not surprisingly, the response when it came (almost instantaneously) rejected his advice. The return message contained a single word: _Never._

He sighed and shook his head. He knew this was the course she wold take. There was no way she would surrender in her predicament nor would she be able to rest until she had escaped… or died trying. He was rewarded for his efforts in trying to help by a sudden trill of his phone. He answered before the first few notes of his ringtone completed.

"How many times have I told you that you can't fight magic with might?" he said in a quiet yet superior tone.

"Apparently not enough," Holly Snow answered warmly over the phone. "Tim, what are you doing up at this hour? Are you okay?"

"Um, sure," he replied but heard the halfhearted effort clearly as he was certain she did as well.

"Uh huh," Holly said. "Do you need to talk, or do you just need a bedtime story? I'm permitted to entertain men in bed as long as there's no payment involved."

"So this isn't a quid pro quo for helping you out of your captivity?" he asked and feared she could hear his blush at the off-the-cuff remark. "Sorry. I didn't mean that. I was sleeping but something woke me. How are you?"

"My queen is in a dungeon," she growled.

"Let me rephrase," McGee grinned. "Other than being trapped by your arrogance and refusal to accept reality of your virtual world, how goes the marauding campaign?"

The former prostitute and madam laughed lightly and companionably.

"I prefer to call it expansion and outreach," she corrected him. "My PR is better than the warlords who tried to breech my borders. Good thing I don't have to report in to a probation officer any longer. A statement like that would convince them I had gone back to my old job."

McGee shook his head and blushed further. He found he spent at least half of his conversations with Holly like that.

"I'd vouch for your character," McGee replied. "Gibbs would, too. Actually, his word is better than mine with probation officers."

"I have more confidence in receiving yours," the former DC madam replied. "After all, my second life online would have been wiped out by Trolls, Shrigas and Orks three months ago if not for your help."

He shook his head. As if conversing after midnight on the phone with the infamous Holly Snow, the renown brains, beauty and coordinator behind DC's most famous high-priced escort business, wasn't strange enough, finding out she was into online gaming as part of a medieval fantasy based MMORPG had reset his reference points for reality. That bit of knowledge was brought to him several weeks before he left for Afghanistan—about the time he and Delilah went their separate ways. Holly had reached out to him for some technical advice after recalling his expertise with programming from the case she worked with Gibbs' team several years earlier.

That email led to another and another and finally to a phone call for advice on how to deal with an enchanted forest spawning evil and powerful vermin making a mess of her village. As the warrior queen of her virtual world, she needed to protect her subjects so she turned to the only Elf Lord (currently retired) who would help her. Since arriving in Dallas, Holly was the only DC contact in his address book McGee was still in touch with. Now, after several weeks of email, texts and sleepless nights, McGee was finding their occasional deep night chats more helpful than the professional sessions he had with his psychiatrist who held multiple degrees and specialized in trauma therapy.

"You got quiet again, Tim," Holly noted with concern. "You said something woke you up. Is that your reluctant way to say you had that dream again?"

McGee sighed but, as he had learned in recent weeks, whenever Holly asked questions as if she already knew the answer, he found himself compelled to respond.

"Yeah, I did," he admitted. "Same as the last few times… mostly."

"Your father is lecturing you," she recalled from a previous conversation. "He's angry and disappointed because he's accusing you of not doing your job and dropping the ball on an investigation, but all you can pay attention to is the fact that he's dressed in his uniform and something about it bothers you."

He nodded even though he knew she could not see him. FaceTime and Skype were not their preferred modes of communication, but he felt she could sense his reaction all the same.

"I finally realized what bugs me about it—other than the lecture," McGee answered. "He's not an admiral in my dream. His insignia is that of a commander, but the ribbons are wrong; well, they're right for when he was a commander, but there are a couple missing."

"And that bothers you?" she noted. "Tim, while I think it's impressive as well as a bit creepy that you remember what he had for ribbons on his uniform years ago, I think you're missing the point. Now, I'm not a professional—well, not this kind anyway—but I think your fixation on his uniform from so long ago is about a little boy who worshiped his father and now feels like he let the man down by losing the memory of… well, losing him."

McGee considered the assessment. It seemed logical and felt right in his mind and in his gut… mostly. Like Gibbs, Holly could read people and seemed to understand them in a deep level. Certainly McGee felt she knew him better than he knew himself in moments like this. Still, there was something more to the dream and how he was feeling—and that also bothered him.

"So why does he keep telling me to finish the case?" McGee scoffed. "He's mad that I left something undone; he's disappointed in me. My mother told me I went to the funeral. What could be left undone with that? So, I have no idea why he keeps asking me about a case. He never paid attention to my career so I don't even know what case he means. He got involved in a single case Gibbs' team worked, but Boss solved that one. If the case the Admiral is talking about is Afghanistan, Ducky told me that Tony and Stan solved that case. The fruits of their efforts have been all over the news with the congressional hearings about the defense contractors and the holes in their internal vetting of the foreign nationals that they trained as security forces. I just can't figure out what the Admiral's talking about."

Holly sighed understandingly and offered her advice freely.

"Tim, it's a dream not reality," she said. "Maybe it's about you not remembering what happened to you on your last assignment. Maybe this dream is just your mind trying to resolve those gaps in your memory rather solve than a case. You're holding yourself to an impossible standard, trying to force yourself to remember something that you physiologically can't because of what happened to you. Maybe your mind is reverting to something (or in this case someone) familiar it can understand. You're frustrated with your inability to remember those days so you've conjured your father lecturing you and setting an impossible task for you to accomplish."

McGee considered her offering and (again) found it more helpful than the therapist he was required to see every week. Not that Dr. Ritcher wasn't qualified or incompetent. There was just no trust between them. McGee acknowledged the man was a professional, but there was a feeling that the report he was preparing for the NCIS evaluation would prevent McGee from returning to duty. With Holly, there was no such worry. She wasn't going to tell anyone in law enforcement anything they said, and unlike Ritcher, she wasn't seeking payment for her advice. Sure, her previous career was about fantasy and social manipulation, but McGee felt her comments and observations were genuine and accurate.

"Have you considered hanging out a shingle to do this professionally?" McGee asked, his thankfulness evident in his voice.

"I think it would be a violation of my probation if I asked people to come and lay on my couch then pay for my time," she said seductively then laughed lightly as if she could see the furious blush that continued to wash over his cheeks. "Is the dream the only thing bothering you?"

He did not want to burden her with his worries, but they had developed an odd rapport, a support system that was mutually beneficial, in recent weeks. She was isolated now from the world and people she knew best. Resorting to a second life online was now her social outlet. There she could be herself, in avatar form, without being judged by her history. She was still a novice in the cyber-verse, but that was where McGee could be her guide and counselor. He suspected both would be uncomfortable to sit across from a table and talk over coffee, but in email, texts and on the phone there was a comfort zone between them.

"I had my official psychological evaluation," he swallowed. "If I fail that…."

His voice trailed off as he sighed.

"I don't think you'll fail," Holly said genuinely. "I think the bigger question is: What do you want to do when you pass? Face it, in some ways, your life would be easier if the doctor said you can't be an agent anymore. After all, that would save you the trouble of having to make that decision yourself. Tim, there's no dishonor or shame in deciding you can't go back to a job that nearly got you killed. Frankly, I know I would feel better if you didn't go back. I don't have many friends, but I count you among them now, so I'd prefer if you were doing something safer."

McGee shook his head instantly. His safety was not his worry. Not precisely.

"Holly, I want to go back," he answered. "I love what I do. What I do matters, usually. I help solve crimes and help victims get answers, but you're right. Despite what I want, I know there are people who would prefer if I didn't go back. I don't want them to worry. I feel like I owe them some consideration, especially after all that's happened. Being a field agent is what I like best, but it's not always what I do best. I'm a geek with the badge. There are other things I could do at NCIS that would support field teams… important things that they need. So I've started wondering if maybe I should be doing those other things."

He paused and sighed as the jumbled thoughts, which made falling asleep hard that evening, began churning in his mind. The Section Chief for the cyber unit in Okinawa was open again; it was tailor made for his resume. Also, Delilah was there. McGee had communicated with her through email. She wrote to him first asking how he was doing. He simply let her know he was recovering well. She offered him an open-ended invite to come see her when he was feeling well enough to travel. He hadn't given a concrete reply to that. Not yet anyway.

"A job overseas, one of our stations in the Pacific, opened up," he explained. "It's a good compromise. I'd still be with NCIS—promoted even—and it would make my family happy since I wouldn't be a field agent anymore."

Holly scoffed her disagreement.

"You told me once that geek with a badge was your goal," she observed. "I've worked with all of Gibbs' team, Tim. It's the mix of all your talents that make the team successful. They need your skills in the field as much as Agent DiNozzo's. So I'll ask you again: Do you really want to go back? Trading your gun for a desk job on an island in the Pacific sounds bit like running away and hiding to me."

The words rang loudly in McGee's ears, except he did not hear them in Holly's voice. It was the memory of his father's accusations in the dream that he heard.

"Do you really think your family would prefer if you were on the other side of the planet?" she wondered with doubt dripping from her words. "You're just in Dallas right now, but sister still calls or texts you daily, doesn't she?"

McGee acknowledged that Sarah's new interest in all things related to her brother was odd and not likely to find favor with her if he traveled several time zones away. Still, he suspected she would ease back on her need for constant contact with him eventually. He had suggested she seek some counseling for herself as she appeared to have some post traumatic issues; although, he could not fathom how she could considering she did not even see him in the hospital until he was past the most worrying time.

"Is leaving your life and your friends in DC what you really want?" Holly asked. "Would you be happy somewhere else? Your closest friends are in DC. Have you spoken to any of them recently?"

McGee had not. Initially, he needed his space and wanted to regain his independence. While he had appreciated Tony, Ducky, and Palmer siting by his bedside or calling him to keep him company during some of the hard, early days of his recovery, he felt awkward and vulnerable with those memories. Keeping his distance from those who had devoted so much of their valuable personal time to him during his time in the hospital felt like the best way to repay them—to not be a further, needy burden to them.

He did get messages from Ziva checking in with him every other week. Bishop did the same with roughly the same frequency. She would drop him email with a few small office details—nothing case related but little tidbits to make him feel still connected to the place: someone in personnel retiring, one of the evidence techs getting married, what agents transferring from HQ to other bases. McGee was not surprised nor bothered by the lack of contact coming from Tony or Gibbs. Both were surely busy with the team down one member. Also, there was a guy code (one Tony would claim McGee only knew as a technicality) which dictated there be no caring and sharing over electronic mediums or phones. They would see him when they saw him and only call if he was absolutely needed.

Thus far, that hadn't happened.

"It's humbling to realize that apparently whatever I bring to our team was so easily replaced," McGee said dejectedly. "Either they haven't had anything technical come up or they are using someone in the cyber unit like Keating to help out."

"Or Abby," Holly offered in a calculated fashion. "She knows about computers as well. You two worked together quite a lot as I recall. Maybe she's the one filling your shoes, or in this case your keyboard."

Abby. McGee sighed at the thought of her.

She was a subject he tried to avoid thinking about lately. He had expected a call or an email from her long before now, but there was none. Not that he felt she owed him such things. He just… expected it. Not because he was operating under his old, hopeful delusion that she might change her mind about him. No, that was not it, he assured himself. It was just Abby's way to check in on her friends when they were not feeling well. Surely his recent medical issues qualified, yet he hadn't heard from her or seen her since before he left the hospital. She had only visited there when others were present, making it clear to him that she was glad he was getting better but didn't wish to talk to just him. Obviously, her relationship with Burt had progressed, meaning he had made it further through her relationship list than McGee ever had.

"Did I finally stump you with a point you can't counter?" Holly asked playfully.

"Maybe," he said with a yawn but his mind was on his colleague back in DC.

He sighed dejected as he realized that Burt was likely the reason behind Abby's lack of contact. She was apparently so busy between her work and her boyfriend that she simply didn't have the time for anyone else.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _NCIS Forensic's Lab_**

Afternoon aggravation set it as Abby growled on behalf of Big Daddy (aka Major Maspec) while she gave the sample on the slide her most sour and disappointed look. Her best solider had done his job, and done it well as usual, but there was nothing more he could do. The minute flecks she pulled from the clothing found on the body of the John Doe pulled out of San Francisco Bay in October 1986 were paint. It was something she suspected and proved rather quickly once she began her analysis on day one of that cold case re-investigation. What bothered her was she knew little more than that. After rerunning her test for the third time in as many weeks, she had to concede she had reached the end of the road with the physical evidence in her possession. Under pressure from the Director's Office to produce some results, she was waiting for Gibbs to arrive after lunch to receive her meager findings.

Still, for as frustrated as she was, she knew she was not alone. Tony, she knew, was feeling similarly. He had no one to interview; no crime scene to visit; and no new leads to track down (which wasn't surprising since they didn't know the name of the John Doe and he was killed on the other side of the country). The agent was now only working the case a fraction of the time as Gibbs' team was back on normal duties full-time. Professionally, Tony was weathering the dead ends and extra work well; personally, it had begun to take its toll—particularly in his private life. From the venting he did to Abby the previous week, his moderately serious relationship with Zoe was drifting toward the rocks. He was torn on what to do so, in typical Tony fashion, avoidance seemed to be his chosen course. He kept on the case and kept his fingers crossed that Zoe would (once he cracked the case) understand why he was choosing work over her.

Abby, too, was experiencing personal difficulties. In fact, as of that morning, her difficulties were swiftly tipping toward anxieties.

It had been five weeks since Sarah McGee had finally answered her many previous messages regarding how McGee was doing. At that time, she made Abby promise not to contact McGee until Sarah told her he was ready to hear from friends. It was three weeks since Sarah returned her next call and let her know McGee had asked to have his privacy respected during his recovery, and it was two weeks since Abby decided that respect only needed to go so far so she took matters into her own hands and reached out to him. Her call to his cell instantly went to voicemail. This did not bother her initially. She did a little digging—perhaps slightly beyond the scope of basic privacy laws (but all for very good and concerned reasons)—and she found out that he had access to his voicemail. She determined an IP address registered to Carol McGee had been used recently to review the messages.

What bothered her was that McGee did not call her back.

While knowing he was at least retrieving his messages pleased Abby as she figured it meant McGee was getting back into a normal routine, it troubled her that he had not responded to her. That worry was why she had done more digging. Again, beyond the scope of… well, anything she was permitted to do normally. She would have felt worse about it (and she did feel pretty bad) if she didn't know McGee himself had overstepped bounds in the past where her privacy was concerned; more than once, he had pinged her cellphone to find out her location when she had not promptly answered his calls or texts.

So she did a little more than just verify if he was retrieving his messages. She took a peek at the phone numbers he was making contact with; she did not read the text messages—just identified the numbers. There were several belonging to Dallas exchanges which turned out to be medical professionals and the cellphones registered to his mother and her friend Griffin Price. While those were regularly contacted numbers, they were not the number he reached out to (and that reached out to him) most frequently. That was registered in a Virginia area code. And who it was registered to rocked Abby off her platform boots.

No amount of rationalization was helping her make sense of what was going on with McGee and his new phone friend.

So she had called in reinforcements to find the logic.

Bishop walked quickly into the lab sporting a bewildered look after being summoned by a terse and worried call from the forensic scientist just minutes earlier.

"Abby?" Bishop called to her. "What's so urgent? Is it about your cold case? Gibbs isn't back yet. He'll want to hear…"

"No, this is something different, and it's serious, but it needs to be between us…. for now," the forensic specialist said as she began typing on her keyboard.

"Okay," Bishop nodded. "Is this about a case?"

"It's about a case, but not a NCIS case," Abby said with a tinge of guilt in her voice. "I mean, it could be about a case. If it is a case, and I hope it's not. It could be part of an old case, just not the cold case—old not cold, do you follow me?"

"Not even a little bit," Bishop shook her head unconcerned as she tried to make sense of the information on Abby's computer screen. "This looks like a lot of phone numbers. Or… no. Correction, a list of just a few phone numbers over and over."

Abby grimaced and sighed as her guilt bubbled up, but her concern overrode that feeling.

"Exactly," she nodded as she spoke quickly and agitatedly. "There's someone doing something that might be something, a bad something, and this someone shouldn't be doing it. And by doing _it_ , I mean the thing he's doing, not _it_ as in… well, _it_ … Although, considering who he is doing it with, you might think it was… well, _that_ , but it's not. I don't think it is, anyway. Unless it's phone sex and that's just not his style."

Bishop nodded slowly then shook her head at the same speed.

"Whoa, phone sex?" she repeated as Abby began typing furiously as her expression grew grave. "Yeah, you've lost me. What and who are we talking about?"

The face of a ginger-haired woman popped upon on the screen in front of them. She was a good looking woman, even in a mugshot, as if flirting with the police photographer was second nature or as if she knew something her accuser did not.

"Who is this?" Bishop asked.

"Her name is Holly Snow," Abby said with a sour curl to his lips.

Bishop sighed in recognition as she nodded with the recollection.

"The DC Madam," Bishop said. "Right. She was busted a few years go. She got some deal and never went to jail. Everyone figured she had dirt on half of the elected officials and judges in DC so she got off easy."

Abby nodded and sighed.

"In a way," Abby explained. "Gibbs and McGee investigated her as an accessory to the murder of a Marine. She wasn't involved in the crime, but she played the go between from the person putting out the hit and the man who carried it out. She had no idea what was going on, but she got paid all the same. Anyway, she got a plea deal and ended up doing community service for the Federal Government by giving sexual harassment training—the how not to training rather than the how to. Now that she's served her sentence, she helps run a business with a lot of government grants that works with runaway girls, victims of sex trafficking and domestic violence."

Bishop nodded appreciatively. It seemed like a reasonable story about rehabilitation.

"Okay," Bishop said. "So, you think she's back to her old ways running a prostitution ring and running a phone sex operation?"

"No!" Abby shook her head. "I mean, I don't know, but I don't think so. I hope not, especially considering what I know, but I want to know what is going on all the same."

Bishop blinked, uncertain where the discussion was leading. To move things along, Abby brought up more information on her screen. Bishop saw that it was the list of calls she had looked at formerly. She looked at it more carefully and saw a pattern of between two numbers, both registered in the Virginia area code. One number Bishop recognized.

"That's McGee's phone," the agent noted. "Hey, can you tell me why he has a Virginia number when he's worked in DC and lived in Maryland for more than 10 years?"

"He's never changed his cell number when he moved here," Abby explained. "It's a security thing—and by that I mean like Linus and his blanket not a ' _you can't find me thing_ ,' which, actually it works for, too, conveniently. He got his number when he first started with NCIS; back then, he was stationed at Norfolk, Virginia. He's just kept the same number all these years. I've got other theories about why he never changed it, but they have nothing to do with what we're doing right now. We need to stay focused, Ellie."

Bishop shirked in surprise at the tart scolding at the end, but decided it was not personal in nature but based more in fear. She knew if she kept quiet for a few more minutes and let the forensic specialist finish her explanation, it would become much clearer. However, Abby did not seem to have much more to say. As the pause between them lengthened, Bishop realized the floor was hers.

"So what is it we are doing right now with this call list other than invading McGee's privacy without probable cause?" she wondered. "And what does Miss Holly Snow have to do with it?"

Bishop knew Abby was a wealth of information on NCIS personnel. Part of that stemmed from her long working relationship with most of them; part of it was from her habit of making co-workers into family. Bishop figured that Abby's knowledge of McGee, even without this recent data pull, might be making this murky picture that was bothering her so seem much clearer than it was to the former NSA analyst.

"Abby, what are you doing with all of this?" she asked.

"This isn't me stalking him," Abby said in a guilt voice that made it evident to the agent that was precisely what she had been doing. "I was worried. I did a little checking, which made me feel like I needed to do more. I'm looking out for him, and this is what I found. Over the last few weeks, he's received 30 text messages and 16 calls from a phone registered to Holly Snow; he's also made five calls to her as well. All of the calls were at least 3 minutes long, some were quite a bit longer. They happen at all times of the day, but the longest ones are late at night. Those calls are up to 20 minutes long sometimes. Those are not phone messages; those are actual person-to-person conversations."

Even without the slightest hint of any history between Abby and McGee, Bishop would have heard the well-smothered jealousy in her voice.

"Did you break into his voicemail to listen to any messages Miss Snow left?" Bishop ventured as her mouth drew flat line of disapproval.

She was reminded of Ducky's previous feelings of ire and violation at the NSA surveillance of McGee's father's funeral. McGee's friends going through his private, personal communications made Bishop feel the same way.

"Well, I checked his messages, but those weren't helpful," Abby offered. "McGee always deletes most of them, and by deletes I mean he actually goes into the company's server and removes them so no one can pull them up again. He didn't do that to my message, but he did it to the rest of them."

"Is that legal?" the agent wondered. "Aren't warrants needed to get into their servers?"

Abby chewed her lip. It was a bit of gray area—at least where she (and obviously McGee) were concerned. The account was his own. The messages where his own. Deleting them was his choice. The company's server holding a backup was sort of an invasion of privacy, if you looked at it under certain guises. That those who knew how to do this backdoor removal action could, in theory, start messing with other people's accounts was the real worry. However, the two people she knew took this measure (herself and McGee) were not going to do that so she thought it best to just keep the discussion on topic.

"The messages he did delete were brief—no more than 10 seconds, so I didn't pull them back to listen," Abby said, feeling a pang of regret at recalling her message was one that he discarded. "I figured they were so short that there wasn't a good reason to listen to them. He has only three messages on his phone that he's never deleted. Those are all from a year ago and came from a cell phone with a Maryland area code…. I looked that one up. It's no longer in use, but it was previously registered to Admiral McGee."

"What are those messages about?" Bishop wondered.

While she waited for the response, the elevator chimed quietly in the background. Neither woman heard the stealthy footsteps of the man arriving for his own briefing.

"I don't know," Abby shook her head as she stared hard at her screens. "They're from his father, so I didn't listen to them. I figured those are his really private, personal messages. They must be pretty important to him or else he wouldn't have saved them. Besides, they're not of interest right now because they're so old. The calls that are my concern are recent—the first time Holly contacted McGee was in April but her calls and texts have increased since he left for Dallas. Do you understand what that means?"

Gibbs peered over her shoulder and offered his thoughts.

"It means you don't have enough to do," he said as Abby spun around in surprise. "What do you have for me?"

Switching gears to her actual work was done with difficulty as Abby spied Gibbs' disappointment at what he saw on the screens and at whatever he heard of her conversation with Bishop when he entered. She flushed with shame and embarrassment but swallowed her pride and pulled up the relevant information on her screen.

"Paint," she said. "I found trace on John Doe's shirt, at the back of the shirt collar."

"Body was dead and in the water for up to 10 days before it was found," he remarked.

"Dead, yes, in the water the whole time, maybe not, but even if it was, it wasn't going to dilute this stuff," she said as she tapped her keyboard. A complex chemical formula appeared. "I give you DTL-2441, an epoxy polyamide coating formulated for full immersion. This one is classified as a 151 zinc, or Z151—a name as dull as the color belonging to it."

"Gray," Gibbs noted.

"Not just gray," Abby smiled. "Navy gray. This is the composition used on Navy ships until 2005 when newer low VOC epoxies were mandated. Today, this specific paint can be purchased from several industrial dealers for maritime craft usage. At the time this shirt was found on John Doe's body, there was only one entity permitted to use Z151."

"The U.S. Navy," Gibbs offered and received a nod. "So the body was either on or near a ship that had wet paint. Abby, do you know how many ships at Alameda had some part of them being painted in October 1986?"

Her grin widened. She did have that information.

"I do," she nodded. "All of them. Ask me how many ships that is?" Gibbs looked at her flatly. "Okay, don't. It doesn't matter. While every ship, at any given time, needs something repaired or touched up, only one ship has a report of a fresh paint job being marred to the point that it needed to be redone."

More typing ensued and a photo appeared of a wall with smears of gray on gray, spatters like a paint was thrown on a wall then splashed on the floor. The picture was taken in a storeroom near the ship laundry. A few more keystrokes pulled up a maintenance record.

"Seaman Kyle Renner was give 15 day restriction for doing a poor job of painting and for basically vandalizing the aft storeroom two doors down from the laundry," Abby explained as she grinned. "Seaman Renner claimed he left his paint and brush for a few minutes to say his farewell to the ship's retiring XO at the end of a hectic Tiger Cruise. He further reported that when he returned, he found this mess."

She typed some more and pulled up a scan of a handwritten account from the irate seaman.

"His supervisor didn't believe he was innocent," Abby reported. "However, Mr. Renner maintained his innocence and submitted a statement for his permanent record. He writes: _The rotten little brats of the officers probably did it; talk to the Captain's son. He and his limping buddy were everywhere they weren't supposed to be all weekend_."

Bishop furrowed her brow, uncertain why this old maintenance record and defense for a discipline action were useful or of interest. Sure, the marring marks on the wall might be the source of the paint on the John Doe's clothing, but that did not seem like a huge break in the old case.

Gibbs, however, smiled.

"Bishop, find former Seaman Renner," he said. "See what he remembers about that weekend. Jog his memory with the report if needed."

The agent nodded and left the room. She thought it unlikely she would learn much from the man, if he was still alive. After all, if he had thought that someone had died in the room where he was accused of a sloppy painting job, she suspected he would have already come forward. However, this case had taught Bishop while it was okay to have her doubts about Gibbs' gut it was not okay to let those questions hinder her when following up on his suspicions. As she departed, Abby kept her hopeful eyes on Gibbs.

"He might know the name of the kid with the limp," Abby offered. "Could be the mysterious young Mr. Carter. Of course, there is another way to do this. You could ask another one of the _'officers' rotten, little brats.'_ Might I suggest, the aforementioned Captain's son? That's McGee in this context. Gibbs, his father was the Captain, and Renner knew who he was on the cruise."

"McGee is on leave," he replied then turned his stern expression on her again. "You want to tell me why you're snooping through his phone records?"

Abby's face flushed red instantly as she looked down at her shoes. Gibbs held his questioning eyes steady while he faced Abby. She lifted her gaze warily to meet his.

"I was worried," she answered. "I asked around and he hasn't called anyone—not Tony or Ellie or Ducky or Palmer. Not me. He hasn't sent any email even. I asked his sister if he was feeling well enough for me to contact him, and she said he would reach out when he was ready. He hasn't done that. So, naturally, I thought he must not have replaced his phone yet, but I checked his carrier, and he has an active device again. He's using it regularly—just not to talk to us."

Gibbs' expression remained stony as she dug the hole deeper.

"I wondered if he just hadn't been able to recreate his contact list, so I left him a message, but I never got a call back," Abby continued. "He hasn't posted anything on Facebook—hasn't even responded to the messages others posted on his wall. He hasn't checked in with any of his gaming sites. He is universally absent. I'm worried. What if he's not doing well—I mean not just in the physical way but with… emotional recovery."

"He's on extended medical leave," Gibbs said plainly. "He's under orders not to think about this place or respond to anything involving NCIS until he has a doctor's report that says he's cleared to return to work."

"We're his friends—his family," she scoffed. "Who would tell him something so ridiculous as don't contact any of us?"

"Me," Gibbs said flatly. "He needs to take care of himself not get wrapped up in a case or start thinking he needs to work on anything here before the experts say he's ready."

Abby hung her head guiltily. She did not realize that Gibbs had made such stern rules for his agent; however, hearing this did make her feel a bit better. There was a chance that McGee wasn't precisely ignoring her so much as preventing himself from accidentally straying into work-infested waters by having contact with anyone at the office. Gibbs' orders were ones he did not defy. She felt worse as she considered there was chance McGee might have viewed her message to him as an attempt at entrapment: luring him to innocently break Gibbs' rule.

"I was worried," she said with a sullen shrug. "The longest I've gone without talking to him for the last 11 years is when he went to Afghanistan in the spring, so you can see why my worry was well-founded. I mean, this is Rule 3 I'm talking about: Never be unreachable. McGee never breaks that one anymore."

Gibbs sighed and looked at her sternly.

"What's any of this got to do with Holly Snow?" he asked. "You were mentioning her when I walked in."

Abby's jaw tightened as her eyes narrowed. She folded her arms as she frowned.

"She's been contacting McGee," Abby charged. "And he's been contacting her back."

Gibbs raised his eyebrows. Of all the people he knew at NCIS who were likely candidates to want to have some one-on-one time with the former madam, McGee would not have made his top 10 or even top 20 list. His agent had worked with Holly in the squad room on a case involving the lawyer who was killing the clients of a former Holly Snow escort, but Gibbs didn't think Holly and McGee became friends during that time.

"See, you think it's odd, too," Abby said pouncing adamantly as she read his expression. "I mean, she's the former DC Madam and McGee is… Well, he's McGee! They do not go together."

Gibbs was inclined to agree. He thought it strange the at-times prim and usually proper male agent on his team would be in contact with a woman whose success, fame and expertise centered around high-profile and expensive sex. Of course, in his career, Gibbs also knew the danger of jumping to conclusions based on very little evidence that was without context.

"What do we do now?" Abby asked emphatically. "Gibbs, something could be wrong. This could be… I don't know, something."

"You delete everything you pulled together for this," he said pointing at the screens containing the web of her private investigation. "You're also going to stop nosing around in his phone or email or whatever else you've been looking at. This is not what we do, Abby."

She hung her head in agreement and shame. Abby tapped a few keys and sent the screens into blackness.

"I was doing it for the right reasons," she said chastised. "I wanted to make sure he was okay."

Gibbs sighed and offered her a soft expression. He knew precisely why she had done this. He kissed her dryly on the cheek.

"I'll tell you when there's a reason to worry," he said then made his way toward the elevators. "Focus on finding me more than paint smears on a shirt."

"I'm still running DNA, but I don't think it'll turn up anything," she called after him. "Gibbs, about that other thing—the thing I'm not looking into or worrying about any more—what are you going to do? We shouldn't just ignore it."

"You will," he answered as the doors slide open.

"But you won't?" she inferred hopefully.

"I'll handle it, Abby," he called back with a weary groan.

"How?" she asked, popping her head out of the lab and into the hallway.

The elevator doors began to close as he called out his strategy.

"I'll talk to Holly," he replied.

Abby scowled at the name, then looked back at her now darkened screens. She had been given orders not to dig into McGee's electronic life and files. Her lips curled in satisfaction as she decided she might as well take a page from the Book of Gibbs on this one: Go directly to the source… or at least someone close to the source.

"One visit to Sarah McGee coming up," Abby said to herself.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	18. Chapter 18

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Uncommon Grounds Café—Outside Waverly University Campus_**

Abby walked into the coffee shop, letting her eyes adjust from the vivid brightness of the mid-July sun to the soothing darkness of the establishment. She closed her black lace parasol and removed her sunglasses. She looked briefly over her shoulder at the co-eds scattered around the tables outside and offered a simple wish to the ether that they would figure out that warnings about skin cancer were not just propaganda by moisturizer companies to get their business.

As she looked around the Zen yet caffeinated space, she spied her quarry seated alone with a tall, steaming cup near one hand and a reading tablet held in the other. From the bags under her eyes, Sarah McGee was not spending her night hours sleeping. Whether that was due to stress or entertainment options, Abby did not know. What she did know was that the doctoral student was going to answer her questions.

Abby approached the table without hesitation. She stood beside it for several long seconds before Sarah either noticed or bothered to acknowledge her arrival. The youngest of the McGee clan looked up and blinked a few times as her face took on a reddish tinge.

"Uh, Abby," Sarah swallowed. "Why are you here?"

"I'm looking for you," she replied as she sat in the chair opposite Sarah without being asked. "Can I ask you something?"

Sarah shrugged while sporting an insolent look. Abby forced a smile onto her face as her eyes narrowed as her ire grew.

"What the hell is your problem?" she asked sharply. "I've been reaching out ask you about McGee for weeks, but I get the feeling you're either dodging me or blowing smoke at me."

Sarah grit her teeth. She never liked the whole surname as a sole identifier. Athletes, soldiers and sailors were called only by their last name in her experience. Her brother was none of those. The impersonal and sterile way of speaking of him grated on her.

" _My_ brother has a first name," Sarah said sourly. "It's what his friends and family call him."

Abby frowned but bit back her initial retort. She kept her voice at a moderate level as she spoke in the controlled fashion.

"What's going on?" Abby asked.

Sarah scoffed and rolled her eyes derisively.

"Nothing other than me telling you to back off, and by that I mean just leave Tim alone," she replied sharply. "I don't know what you're trying to do with this little ' _I'm so worried_ ' charade you're playing, but if you ever considered yourself his friend, truly his friend, then you'll leave him be."

Customers in the shop passed by them uninterested and unconcerned by the tension roiling around the table. Despite the apparent anonymity they enjoyed, Sarah gathered up her electronics and ditched her coffee. With a snort of dismissal, she stood up and walked out of the café. Abby blinked in surprise but followed all the same.

Sarah crossed the street and was striding back to campus under the shade of tree canopies. Abby hurried to catch up as her anger flared.

"Truly his friend?" Abby repeated as she approached Sarah from behind. "Hold on. McGee and I… I mean, Tim and I are friends. We're very good friends."

Sarah scoffed as she wheeled around to glare.

"Yeah, that kind of makes me pity him," Sarah snarled over her shoulder. "Actually, I heard you _think of him as a brother_ now. Newsflash, a sister who cares wouldn't treat her brother the way you treat Tim."

"Who told you that I…," Abby began but was cut off.

"He told me—the night before he left of Afghanistan," she replied acidly. "I'll let you in on something obvious. You claim to think of him as a brother—well, he's already got a sister—a real one who actually cares. If you're feeling like an ex-girlfriend who is missing the old times, find someone else you dumped to occupy your time. Tim's talking to Delilah again so he doesn't have time for you."

"He is?" Abby asked, trying to recall if there were any international calls on the log she had reviewed previously.

"Yeah," Sarah nodded. "In fact, she wants him to visit. She misses him and wants to reconsider their break up now that he may be taking a job Okinawa."

Abby gaped and blinked. She refused to believe McGee would leave the Navy Yard. The Section Chief for the Cyber Unit at the NCIS station in Okinawa had previously been dangled in front of him, but he had declined because he preferred being a field agent. Now, the job was open again. The thought that he might be reconsidering it shocked her…. if it was true. Her gut told her not to take most of what Sarah was offering as fact until Abby figured out why she was acting this way.

"He turned that job down a few years ago," Abby shook her head.

"Well, things change," Sarah scoffed confidently. "Frankly, my mom and I are happy he's coming to his senses. He got to play special agent for a few years to get that out of his system. It took longer than we expected, especially for someone as smart as he is, but he's coming around."

"He won't take that job," Abby said but wasn't as certain as her words sounded. "He likes being a field agent too much, and he'd never leave Gibbs' team."

"I'll live with my facts," Sarah shrugged as she started to walk away. "You delude yourself with your opinions."

She walked quickly away, putting distance between herself and the scientist. Abby huffed and refused to let the discussion end this way.

"Hold on," she demanded as she followed Sarah. "Why are you so mad at me?"

Sarah wheeled around to face her with a harsh and fiery glare that made Abby momentarily recoil.

"Because you're cruel," Sarah snapped. "I used to like you because I thought you were a better person, and I thought you cared about him. Now, I know I was wrong. The way you snap at him and manipulate him…. You jerk him around like your puppet. I didn't know about any of that before; I thought Tim just never found the courage to tell you that he had feelings for you. I didn't know that you knew all along how he felt, but you chose instead to use that as a means to walk all over him."

"I don't do that," Abby balked and shook her head.

"Yeah, you do," Sarah charged as she began ticking examples off her fingers to make her point. "You guilted him into keeping a dog that attacked him. You brag that you can harm him without leaving any evidence; you make him feel badly about an education he is proud of. Hell, you dated someone else while you were dating him years ago. When he went to say goodbye to you before he left the States, you ripped his head off!"

"Whoa!" Abby stepped back and held up her hands. "Where is all this coming from?"

"From Tim," Sarah said in a hot rush of words as her face grew red and her throat tight. "The night before he left of Afghanistan, I went to his apartment to see him off. He was in a rotten mood, and I got him to tell me why: It was you. You'd snapped at him because he was foolish enough to ask if your boyfriend was okay. Do you have any idea how hard that was for him? No, because you don't care about his feelings. You've got everybody snowed thinking you're this ultra-caring woman, but it's all an act. It's like what you're doing now. You're trying to edge back into his life because you're lonely again and you need attention. That night, before he left, I actually teased him and said he was just being bitchy to me because he was jealous of your boyfriend. I can't believe I told him to just come clean with you and tell you how he felt. He's never gotten mad at me like that before. He told me all sorts of things. Actually, it was mostly little angry snippets of things, but I got the picture. I never thought of you as a cruel person until then, Abby. Do you know what makes it even worse? When he stopped sputtering, I told him that he was better off walking away from you entirely, that he should just break off his friendship with you if you were that kind of person. Then he started defending you! That's right. He back peddled and said he was being too harsh when he told me all those things about you! He made up some excuse about being stressed about work and that hadn't really explained any of it well enough to me. Then he told me to stop bugging him about it. I said no and then he… He snapped at me so I…."

Her eyes filled with pained tears as a sob rocketed out of her chest.

"I told him with that kind of attitude that I hoped he didn't come back," she crumpled as her voice cracked and she dropped her bag then buried her face in her hands.

Abby gasped and pressed her hands to her mouth. She then sighed understandingly. Without hesitation or worry, she quickly embraced the weeping woman. Sarah resisted briefly then surrendered to the offered comfort.

"It's the last thing I said to him," Sarah cried. "I told him he was being a jackass like Dad and that if he was going to be like that he could stay gone for all I cared. Then I left."

She continued to sob. Her face pulsed a deep red and tears flowed in torrents down her cheek, soaking into Abby's shoulder as the memories, ones that haunted her so badly sleep was no longer her friend, poured out of her.

"He tried to call me twice while he was gone, but I didn't answer on purpose because I was still mad at him," she offered in a choking confession. "I deleted the messages he left me without even listening to them. I did the same to the email he sent. Then he nearly died."

Abby sniffled, swept up in Sarah's angst and sorrow, as her own eyes watered. She made soothing noises in her throat as she held onto Sarah tightly.

"Shh, it's okay," Abby said understandingly. "It was a stupid fight. You said some dumb things you regret. He knows you didn't mean what you said."

"I don't think he remembers me saying it," she said as she tried to catch her breath. "I thought that would make it better, but it doesn't. I still feel the same. What if he had died thinking I was mad at him? The last things I said to him were so horrible. And now I'm worried that he'll remember that I basically told him that I hated him. He'll never forgive me for that."

Abby sighed and shook her head. She reached into her bag and pulled a tissue. Sarah disentangled herself from their embrace and received the tissue sullenly.

"Sarah, you never said hated him, and he would never think that," Abby assured. "Your brother loves you, so even if he does remember your harsh words, Timmy will always forgive you. He would never hold any of that against you. It's not who he is."

"But if he had died, then I would never have been able to make up for that or say I'm sorry," she gasped as mopped her dripping eyes.

"Tim didn't die," Abby reminded her warmly. "He survived. You know, you don't need to carry this guilt. If you feel like you need to apologize to him, you can do that. He's really good at listening and even better at forgiving people. I know from my own experience."

Sarah sniffled then mumbled something as she steadied her breathing. She looked at Abby with wary and uncertain eyes that were red and puffy but no longer sullen or angry.

"I really didn't like what he told me about the two of you," Sarah said. "I know I only heard his side of things when he was grouchy, but I don't think I want to hear any more of it so please don't explain. I know better than anyone that my big brother can be a major pain in the ass about a lot of things and that he's annoying and aggravating and fussy, but despite all that, he's not someone who should be treated badly by anyone—not our Dad, not me, and not even you."

Abby sighed, but she nodded. She did not feel the need to explain her relationship with McGee or give her side of their various ups and downs. Still, she did feel the urge to calm the waters between herself and Sarah.

"Timmy and I have a lot of history," Abby said simply. "Not all of it is wonderful or proof either of us is always thinking straight or behaving rationally, but we've been close friends for a long time. It doesn't always make sense, but people sometimes hurt each other out of anger or lack of attention, but that doesn't mean they don't care—sometimes it means pretty much the opposite. So, I realize now that you've been reacting out of fear and guilt but…"

Sarah shook her head quickly. She did not disagree about the motivation behind her recent actions, but she stood behind her ultimate goal.

"You'll hurt him, Abby," she said. "Whether you mean to or not, that's what will happen. My brother's been through too much. You got in his head a long time ago and even if you didn't mean for that to happen, it did, and you know it. Please, just give him space. That's all I was trying to do by preventing you from reaching out to him. After everything he's been through, he deserves some peace. Getting all twisted up inside because of you again isn't fair. That's why I… I got into his voicemail and deleted your message before he could hear it. I pulled your number out of the call log even. I did it to protect him."

Abby said nothing for a moment. It wasn't precisely an apology, but it was an explanation for his failure to return her call. There was no point in rehashing her frustration with Sarah. The cause of the subterfuge had its roots in her guilt lashing out and her genuine desire to help her brother.

"I think it's great that you care about your brother enough to want to protect him, but lying and manipulation is not the way to do that," she said simply. "Sarah, that's pretty much what you accused me of doing. There's a cliché about practicing what you preach that would be appropriate here."

Sarah half shrugged and nodded slightly. Her own words were not a full admission nor even a partial apology, but she could sense that Abby would let that slide. She knew the guilt she felt radiated from her eyes, and she hoped it was sufficiently sympathy-inducing for the two women to put this discussion in the past and move on.

"Did he actually say he was considering taking the job in Okinawa?" Abby asked.

Sarah swallowed.

"He said it, but I don't think it's what he wants to do," she admitted as she dabbed at her drying eyes. "I think it's what he thinks Mom and I want him to do."

The next question made Abby's heart beat frantically as she asked it and waited for the answer, but she did her best to keep her expression neutral.

"What about Delilah?" she asked.

"She did reach out to him since she found out what happened," Sarah said as she ran her hands through her hair to smooth the mess it had become. "She mentioned she would like to see him, but he didn't seem like that was something he wanted to run off and do. Mom thinks he's been talking to her late at night, but I don't think so. Whoever he is talking to, it isn't Delilah or he would have told me. I thought it might be Tony, but Mom thinks it is a woman. She won't say how she knows, but she's usually right. Maybe it's Ziva. She's in a different time zone so maybe that's why the calls are at odd hours."

Abby said nothing as she opted not to say what she knew about those calls. She did not consider withholding that information deceptive. She was merely following Gibbs' order to delete everything she knew. Speaking about McGee's regular calls to a former prostitute would not be an act of deletion.

"I know Tim loved being a field agent, but after what's happened I think taking a desk job is best for him," Sarah explained. "Mom wouldn't like him to be on the other side of the planet, and neither would I. Still, if it means he'll be safe, then that's what we want for him. After what happened, neither of us want him to go back to his old job."

"I understand that," Abby said, feeling a pang of fear. "But it's his choice. He shouldn't do something just to please you or your mother. That will never make him happy. Did he say he was seriously considering going to Okinawa?"

The possibility worried Abby because McGee would easily be offered the job if he was interested. It would be a great choice for the agency. His skills were tailor-made for the post. Like Sarah, part of Abby would feel better if McGee was no longer doing a job that required him to carry a gun or face the possibility of one being fired at him. She felt that way about all of Gibbs' team, but she felt it more acutely for McGee for a variety of reasons, not the least of which being his recovery from being on the wrong side of a bullet.

"It's Tim," Sarah groaned and rolled her eyes. "He's considering everything. He probably has charts and lists of all his options so he can write an equation or a program to figure out the right thing to do. I don't care what he chooses, as long as it's safe."

Abby shook her head as she rubbed Sarah's arm pityingly.

"Nothing in life is safe," Abby informed her. "Being totally safe isn't living—that's just breathing in and out while calling it living. I want him to be safe, too. You might not believe me, but I care about your brother… a lot—more than I realized for a long time. He's very important to all of us at the office. I wish being a special agent was a safe career and that suddenly there were no bad guys so everyone was always safe. But that's not reality. This is: We are safer because people do those hard and dangerous jobs. It's one of the things we love about them."

Sarah took a deep, shaky breath as she again shook her head. Her face grew pale with deathly thoughts.

"I panicked when I thought I would lose him," Sarah said softly. "He's been the only constant in my life, for my whole life. It was a given that Dad wasn't going to around when I needed him, and Mom would always have that phony smile to make us think everything was fine even when it wasn't. Penny was always… Penny. But Tim was always there, always the same, always reliable. Sure, he annoys me, and he always thinks he knows better than me what I should do with my life. He's always telling me what I should do and what I've done wrong but…."

Abby nodded and put her arm around the still trembling woman's shoulders as she finished her thought.

"But you would be completely lost without him," Abby guessed. "I know how that feels. It's horrible and scary. All of us felt that kind of fear when he got hurt. You know, you didn't have to go through this alone, Sarah. Timmy's family to us too. So, if you need anything or just need to talk, you have my number… Or, you should. God knows I've called you enough recently. Granted, if you've been deleting my messages to you and clearing your call log as well as ignoring me then maybe you don't have my number saved…"

Sarah laughed unwillingly as she spied the mischievous glint in Abby's eyes. She understood in part her brother's inability to cut the woman out of his life. As he told her, Abby wasn't a bad person just a complicated one—someone it was easy to misunderstand if you weren't paying attention in the right way because she was someone with a good heart at her core.

"Mom's ready to concede that he can take care of himself again," Sarah revealed. "The doctors said he's doing really well, better than they anticipated. He only has to get checkups once a month now. In a few weeks, he'll be done with even that. They cleared him to return to the shooting range. He actually went this morning; he told me that it went well when I talked to him about it. He was nervous to go, but it sounds like he thinks he did okay. He didn't really want to talk about it much, mostly, I think, because he's being careful not to talk about guns and shooting with me and Mom. Actually, he only told me because I made him."

"He's a good son," Abby nodded. "Good brother, too."

Sarah sighed and then shrugged. Her expression grew softer.

"I'm not supposed to tell anyone this," she said. "If his psychological evaluation comes back fine, he wants to come back next week. He doesn't want anyone to know his plans except Director Vance and Agent Gibbs, in case things don't go the way he hopes."

Abby nodded. The offering was an olive branch of sorts and gave her a renewed sense of hope and a touch of excitement.

"Gotcha," Abby agreed. "Mums the word, and I promise I'll stay off McGee's radar until he's back in my general air space. Just let me know if you think he might be delayed returning… for any reason. And I meant what I said. If you're feeling nervous about him coming back, but you don't feel like you can talk to him about it, you can call me. Friends and family take care of each other, Sarah."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Ducky entered the soaring room to find his quarry seated alone. The rest of the team was nowhere in sight.

"Something on your mind, Duck," Gibbs asked without looking up from the file in front of him.

"Something to divulge so it need not remain on my mind," the medical examiner said. "I was finally able to get in touch with Marvin Rogers, the retired medical examiner for San Francisco. He just celebrated his 75th birthday by competing in a parkour event in London."

"What?" Gibbs looked up in confusion as he pulled off his glasses.

"Ah, parkour is a dare devil sport of sorts, sometimes called free running," Ducky explained. "It was invented in France in the 1980s. It is usually popular with vigorous, youthful demographic who are extremely nimble. In parkour, participants move freely through any terrain using their own strength and flexibility, often using urban environments such as benches, buildings and walls as a type of obstacle course. It's becoming quite the rage with the older generations now who want to show that they still have a few tricks in their bags."

He grinned with a hint of pride as Gibbs smirked and shook his head. To him, add in some random crime and it sounded like felony behavior that New York City called 'wilding' in the 1980s. It figured France would find a way to make it a sport.

"Dr. Rogers had his own files on his cases, as I suspected he might," Ducky continued. "Like many medical examiners, he found his John Doe cases particularly difficult to simply let go. He had more information, speculation of course, but well based speculation. He told me that he always suspected the body we had exhumed was not a street person or a homeless man. In fact, the investigator who first looked into the case did not believe so either, but a DEA agent used his influence to have the record reflect a different finding."

"DEA?" Gibbs questioned. "There was no indication the DEA was involved or interested in this guy."

"No, nothing was in the official record," Ducky said as he placed several pages on Gibb's desk. "Dr. Rogers has had a sour taste in his mouth for all Federal law enforcement ever since he worked this case. However, after I explained our renewed interest in it, he faxed me what he had in his own records. All he asked in return is that if we give this John Doe a real name that we let him know. I think that is a small price to pay for a new lead."

Gibbs grunted his approval as he began to scan the documents. He was particularly interested in the DEA angle as there was no mention of the agency in Franks' meager report. Still, in the mid-1980s, Franks was beginning to dig into the increase drug rings growing inroads into the Navy. As the US began covert drug interdiction raids in countries like Colombia, NIS was trying to crack down on the avenues for transporting drugs using Navy vessels and trafficking the illicit substances on Naval and Marine bases. It had been one tentacle of that endeavor several years later that brought Gibbs into the NIS world following the death of his family.

"Did Rogers remember the DEA agent's name?" Gibbs asked as he shook memories of Shannon and Kelly out of his mind.

"He did," Ducky replied. "Oliver Johnson. His name sounded familiar to me so I did a little research on my own. He left the DEA in the 1992 then served one term as a U.S. Congressman from Oregon in the late '90s. After that, he dropped out of public life. As I am certain you have greater methods than a Google search to find out more about him, I leave this in your most capable hands."

Gibbs nodded his thanks and was prepared to dive into the faxed pages in more depth when his phone rang. It was Sheila, the director's secretary, summoning him to the office. Gibbs sighed and looked up the stairs with a questioning gaze. Vance had left the building early that morning for a meeting at the Justice Department. Gibbs did not know why his director was meeting with Justice and had not realized the man had returned.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Vance's Office_**

Gibbs entered the room to see the back of a head he recognized. The balding dome was ringed in salt and pepper, but his face remained pointed at Vance, who sat at his desk sporting a flat and sharp expression. Gibbs eyed both men warily as he stood beside the vacant chair in front of the desk. He stiffly nodded to his friend and occasional cohort, FBI Agent Tobias Fornell.

"Jethro," Fornell said.

"I'm not going to like this, am I?" Gibbs remarked directing his question at Vance.

"Try to be positive, just once," Fornell smiled.

"Fine," Gibbs said. "I'm positive I'm not going to like this."

Fornell scoffed affably then shook his head.

"I'm here asking Director Vance to borrow an asset for a couple days," Fornell explained.

"Budget problems?" Gibbs wondered. "Last time I heard, the FBI's had more zeros at the end of theirs than there is on than ours."

Vance snorted his agreement but did not invite the discussion to take that turn very long.

"He needs the kind of asset money can't exactly buy," Vance replied. "As you know, Agent Fornell is a member of the Department of Homeland Security's Joint Terrorism Task Force. In that capacity, he is asking for personnel to assist with an ongoing investigation. He's come to us to help close out part of an in-progress operation. We've got something, someone, they need."

"Who?" Gibbs asked expecting to hear Tony's or Bishop's name. However, he was wrong.

"Boy genius," Fornell said cautiously as Vance paused.

The director's silence could be read a few ways. It could be a strategic move to get the JTTF representative to reveal more information in an effort to sweeten the deal. It could be read as frustration that his agency, already undermanned and underfunded, was yet again being asked to step beyond their immediate portfolio to help a group with virtually unfettered access and funds do their job at another agency's expense. Or, it could be taken to be simple reluctance, and the reasons for that could be many and varied.

Gibbs remained silent, offering no physical reaction. Playing this cagey seemed wise until he knew more.

"I'm told we have a whole basement full of them across the street," Gibbs nodded. "Sign on the door says Cyber Unit. Walk over, take a look at the litter, then pick one."

Fornell grimaced, expecting this sort of response but not prepared to be brushed off easily.

"Thanks, but we need one in particular, Jethro—yours," he replied. "This is a specific and tailored request. Only one fits the bill: Special Agent McGee."

Gibbs chuckled and shook his head firmly.

"No, can't help you there," he said. "He's on medical leave. The real kind, not the _I've got a headache but if I go play golf it'll get better_ kind."

Fornell scowled at the jab. Once. He had played hooky and used sick leave once in his career then made the mistake of telling Gibbs after a few too many shots. While the two agents stared hard at each other, neither willing to yield, Vance reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a file. He handed it to Gibbs, who held it at arms' length to skim it as he was without his reading glasses. As he did so, Vance tented his fingers while sporting a guarded expression behind his desk.

"That's Agent McGee's preliminary clearance to return to work," Vance revealed. "It hit my desk this morning."

"Dr. Westlake said it would be four months for full recovery," Gibbs pointed out.

"Four months before he would be considered ready to take his physical assessment to return to full field duty," Vance corrected him. "His medical team signed off on a return to limited desk duty starting next week, if Agent McGee feels he is ready. It's been nearly 11 weeks since he was shot. I know that might not seem like a long time considering what happened, but medically he's nearly as good as he was before it happened. This report clears him to work in the office for half days until he gets full medical clearance. He'll need to keep to a strict schedule. No field work. Regular hours only. No credit hours. No over-time."

Gibbs kept his face stony as he remained standing.

"He's still in Texas," Gibbs noted.

"He has an open ticket to fly back anytime he chooses," Vance said.

"JTTF wants him on an undercover op in the field, but you just said he's not cleared for field work," Gibbs pointed out. "This report is just a preliminary psych evaluation. He missed his annual firearms qualification while he's been on leave; I've got the paperwork on my desk revoking his permission to carry a weapon. His agent status is in limbo. Homeland have a waiver for that?"

A muscle in Vance's jaw bunched as he leveled his stare at his employee, who gazed back without intimidation or offense. Fornell sighed and stepped into the standoff.

"He didn't lose his security clearance," he offered. "It's only administratively suspended during his extended leave. One signature from you, and its restored within the hour. That's half of what we need. The other half, he never lost: his knowledge of computer code. That's what we need most. We need someone who can read programming language as easily as we read road signs."

Whether McGee did still have all his knowledge was a question Gibbs did not have answered yet. As far as the psych eval was concerned, McGee was not demonstrating any overt signs of post-traumatic stress. While Gibbs found that a bit odd, he did not think it impossible. Of all his agents (past or present), he was the one most comfortable with expressing and accepting any fear or perceived vulnerability. According to the evaluation done after the NCIS building was bombed, he "processed his feelings in a clinically healthy and efficient manner"—whatever that meant. What Gibbs knew was more important to him. McGee had a self-awareness that let him see his flaws, mistakes and vulnerabilities as areas for improvement rather than traits that should be hidden, repressed and denied. At times, that manifested itself in a timid self-consciousness with waves of self-doubt, but McGee owned those feelings and worked through them as best he could. Gibbs suspected the latest evaluator was mistaking that openness as a lack of blemishes on the agent's mental state. As a precaution, Gibbs full intended to have Ducky and Cranston both spend time with McGee when he did return to offer their more knowledgeable opinions.

Still, Fornell's interest in McGee's technical abilities was a point of concern for Gibbs. Abby, in her unauthorized perusing of McGee's electronic footprints over the last few weeks, found very little activity. The reason for that bothered Gibbs. He now knew about the bizarre but platonic relationship between his agent and Holly Snow. Her offerings to him were guarded but she did hint that McGee was experiencing some lingering anxieties, none of which appeared to be documented in the official evaluation in his hands. So, the lack of assessment of his agent's memory was a problem for Gibbs. From the limited glance the supervisory agent gave the new report, McGee hadn't volunteered any concerns himself.

"I think it's a bad idea," Gibbs said simply. "I don't think he's ready."

"Based on what?" Vance said. "An expert says he's ready."

"Expert?" Gibbs scoffed. "Guy with a degree. He's an expert in something. I'm not sure it's McGee."

"If you know something I don't but should, now's the time to share," Vance prodded.

"Just my gut telling me this is a bad idea," Gibbs shrugged.

While Gibbs kept his eyes on his director, Vance stated his thoughts on this request of assistance succinctly.

"JTTF needs someone who can read multiple code languages and has clearance to be read into a classified undercover operation," he elaborated. "Our asset is the top of their wish list to fill that need. I have a clearance allowing him to participate. The taskforce's request is not an order for us to surrender him yet, but with the right phone calls, it could be. If that happens, NCIS might lose control of how and when he returns to us. As you pointed out, his agent status is in limbo, which leaves us with a federal employee in need of assignment but with questions about whether he can be returned to his previous duty station in his previous capacity. Someone is going to make a decision. I'd prefer if it was us."

Gibbs scoffed and rolled his eyes. The rationale was doublespeak for Sec Nav (or, depending on the level of interest in the op, the White House) not wanting to step into agency turf wars and dangling retribution over NCIS to force them to play nice.

"Meaning our only acceptable answer is to let this happen," Gibbs scoffed. "Doesn't feel much like a choice when you're blackmailed into it."

The FBI liaison recognized that and felt some empathy for his law enforcement colleagues. To soften the blow, he began to plead his case in the face of Gibbs' doubt.

"It comes down to this: The Bureau's geeks are all allotted elsewhere or don't have the right combination of skills we need," Fornell explained. "We need someone proficient in certain computer skills, who also has the requisite security clearance along with experience in undercover operations. Geeks with badges who've been outside of a cubicle are rare, Jethro. They're like mythical creatures, but you happen to have one. So, the taskforce is calling on NCIS to fill the void—just this one time."

"Just one time?" Gibbs laughed derisively. "Where have I heard that before? Do I have to remind you that he's recovering from an attempted murder?"

"I am well aware," Vance assured him. "I have no intention of putting him into something he can't handle. Homeland is the lead on this, and Deputy Director Morrow assures me this assignment is strictly computer work. Agent McGee will be reviewing a computer virus that the field agents are attempting to buy from a cell of cyber terrorists. These targets may be the ones responsible for the OPM breach last month, the cyber-attack on the security office at Camp Pendleton last year, and the attempted infiltration of the servers for JSOC two months back."

Gibbs nodded. While none of the computer invasions had directly impacted his team's workload, each was familiar with the incidents. Identifying information for millions of government employees had been compromised; a Marine base in California was still running in circles trying to restore sanity to its electronic systems for identifying personnel, and countless plans and operations at the Pentagon were undergoing a rigorous audit to determine if anything may have been released and to whom.

"DHS thinks all this is a domestic attack now?" Gibbs remarked. "Two days ago, they put out a broadcast stating they thought it originated in Venezuela."

Fornell shrugged, unsurprised by the inaccurate information floating around—much of it directly from agency cleared briefing papers.

"It's looking like a joint foreign/domestic effort," Fornell said. "The ones ultimately orchestrating the attacks are probably the Chinese; that will take another year to confirm at this rate. What we do know is that the leading suspect for the programmer is a former Navy Commander named Darren Grayson, an MIT graduate who polished his skills under the tutelage of his college advisor and mentor, Dr. Anton Dmitri."

Unsurprisingly, the name meant nothing to Gibbs, but the mention of the school in Massachusetts had him wondering. He raised his eyebrows to ask a silent question.

"Yes, Dr. Dmitri was also Agent McGee's academic advisor and his mentor at MIT," Vance explained. "Grayson was at the school two years before McGee so they never met, but they have the same computer forensics background. In the past, Agent McGee even reviewed some of Grayson's work on an unrelated case—something he was asked to look at when he was in Norfolk, just before he joined your team. He'll know this man's programming style. If this is Grayson's work, McGee will be able to read the code better than anyone the FBI or DHS has on staff."

Gibbs was willing to accept that. Vance was a computer guy at heart—the only thing he and McGee had in common—which was likely why Deputy Director Morrow had made it a point to emphasize the sedentary and analytical nature of this assignment rather than calling it a field operation. Still, Gibbs was not sold on the proposal, and it showed in his rigid expression and posture.

"The taskforce is only asking him to read the code," Fornell insisted. "We have an agent to interact with team selling the virus and strike team ready to snatch up everyone after the deal goes through. McGee's going to be sitting at a computer away from the action the whole time. He won't even see the arrests. Trust me, the most danger he'll face is burning his tongue on coffee while he reads gibberish on the screen."

Gibbs scoffed while Vance cocked his chin to the side to stare flatly at the liaison.

"You mind not calling it gibberish," the Director remarked dryly. "Some of us read it too, not as fluently, but we're versed in it. If it was actually gibberish, we'd leave it to Homeland to sift through."

Fornell held up his hands in apology as he smirked his surrendering of that point. Gibbs was not amused by the exchange or mollified by the tension breaker.

"McGee's only medically cleared to sit at a desk in the office for four hours each day," he pointed out. "You sending him this code through email?"

Fornell grimaced then looked to Vance.

"We need him to be on site, close to the exchange," Vance said. "The targets are tech savvy, Gibbs. They're not going to let the code be transmitted until they get payment."

"And we're not paying them," Fornell asserted. "We're verifying this is the real deal, then we're busting them. Our code breaker needs to be with us in the field so to speak so we can move fast to pick up anyone else who might be associated with this cell. I'm not really clear on how we're letting him view the code without him being with our agents at the rendezvous point when they receive it, but DHS has that all worked out. Allegedly, this will all take place in the National Radio Quiet Zone in West Virginia—no broadcast signals of any kind in or out of that 13,000 square mile parcel."

Gibbs snorted. That tidbit alone was enough to send red flags in the air for him.

"Can't send it to him so he'll need to be present near the exchange to look at it?" Gibbs shook his head. "Sounds like field work, and a bit sketchy on the details."

"I understand your concerns—in fact, I share them," Fornell replied. "Look, I'm on your side here, Jethro. I like McGee, too. I know what he's been through. I wouldn't be here asking if I thought this was too much for him. He can handle this. It's just reading."

Gibbs shook his head and scoffed. The taskforce knew what it was doing when they chose Fornell to be their liaison with NCIS, particularly when asking to strip away an asset from Gibbs' team. No doubt that was Morrow's hand in the mix. He was the NCIS director that let Gibbs pull McGee, then a young and untested probationary agent, out of obscurity in Norfolk to join one of the agency's major case response teams.

Never one to see much merit in the psychological acrobatics agents were put through to be assessed as ready for duty normally, Gibbs was grateful now for those usually annoying and pesky regulations. He was sure McGee's preliminary report wasn't telling the whole story. He wanted his agent back but not until he was up for the task. This request felt like a convenient short cut for a short term gain by the taskforce without any long range thinking.

"Psych eval didn't cover any of this," Gibbs said. "And it's only a preliminary report."

"Psychological evaluation says I can allow him on this field trip," Vance summarized. Gibbs threw a displeased look at the man. "Agent McGee was asked if he was ready for his eval, and he said he was. The final report won't look much different. He passed it."

"Of course, he said he was ready," Gibbs scoffed. "The request came from your office."

"The eval team called him, not me and no one speaking with the authority of this office," Vance said sternly as he sat back in his chair unwilling to be put on the defensive in his own office. "He's in the dark about this operation for the moment. I'm ready to make a decision; however, as you are his direct supervisor, I'm asking for your input. Have you talked to him recently?"

"No," Gibbs shook his head. "What happens if I don't give my permission?"

"I didn't ask for permission," Vance said in a warning tone. "I asked for your input."

Gibbs' hard stare left little doubt what his input continued to be. Vance stared back unsurprised but still not pleased. Fornell looked between the two men staring each other down, neither willing to budge in their position. Gibbs was holding the line, looking out for his team, and expressing reservation as another agency was invading his turf. Vance was thinking globally, as a senior executive must, and was thinking about more than simply his agency but also the Administration that tasked him with the larger goal of protecting the homeland not just through bringing justice to the navy and marines impacted by crime in one form or another but through partnership with sister law enforcement agencies. His tightrope spanned multiple chasms.

"I know this isn't great timing, but an opportunity presented itself," Fornell said as he handed Gibbs a slim folder with the few details he had on the operation. "We need help, Jethro. This is one of those times when we all need to give a little to get a lot."

Gibbs grunted as his eyes scanned the documents. Like the eval, he couldn't read them closely as his glasses were still on his desk, but that didn't stop him from squinting at the pages. His pause forced Vance to offer his own take on the situation.

"I won't send him to do anything he can't handle," Vance assured his supervisory agent. "I want him back working with us. I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize any of my agents. Give me a concrete objection I don't already know, and I will see that it gets the appropriate consideration. Otherwise, I am going to allow Agent McGee's participation in this endeavor as Deputy Director Morrow assures me that while scope of the operation is vast, Agent McGee's participation will be narrow."

Fornell nodded his agreement.

"DHS is the lead on this, but the Bureau is heavily involved," Fornell assured Gibbs. "I'm not in the field on this. I'll be with McGee the whole time. I'll have his back, even though it looks like mostly that means I'll stand behind his chair hoping he doesn't develop carpel tunnel syndrome or get headaches from looking at a few thousand lines of code. I promise: You'll get him back without another scratch. Scouts honor."

Gibbs huffed his doubts. He clasped the folder in his hands as he turned to leave the room.

"Well that would mean a lot to me, Tobias," he said as he opened the door. "Except I know you were never a scout."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	19. Chapter 19

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Gibbs entered the office well before any of his agents. It was early morning, before 7, and he was sporting a dangerous scowl as he crossed the elevator's threshold. His black mood was prompted by a call from Fornell just minutes earlier. He knew from the first syllables that it was not good news. Nothing that ever started with the words "You're not going to like this" and ended with "it was out of my control" ever ended well.

And Gibbs was certain that streak was continuing.

What the FBI agent conveyed both concerned and enraged the retired gunnery sergeant. Gibbs had a bad feeling in his gut from the moment the proposition was made the previous week to use McGee to help the JTTF with their shadowy operation. Vance had signed off only on the premise that their agent's participation was desk work. That the desk would be in a surveillance van was questioned but not considered a deal breaker by upper management.

Now, Gibbs was willing to forgo his _I told you so_ scowl and glare to have concrete information about what was going on. What little he knew worried him.

The plan to put a DHS agent in with the sellers of the computer virus had apparently fallen apart unexpectedly and tragically one day earlier. To salvage the mission, someone (apparently the "desk help" in need a headslap himself) had suggested he could substitute for the undercover buyer. Why the taskforce bought off on the idea was not Gibbs' first question. No, that was actually: What the hell was in Homeland's coffee?

No one sane and experienced with undercover operations would ever have a well-organized plan fall apart overnight then throw together a makeshift backup plan when lives and possibly the nation's cyber security were on the line. Then again, Gibbs was willing to concede, there was a better than average chance that the backup plan wasn't so much a hasty Plan B as it was a known possibility by those on the taskforce all along. He'd been screwed by Homeland before, and he never got used to the sensation. If having McGee as an alternate all along was the plan, Gibbs doubted Fornell would have withheld that kind of information. However, he did not doubt that DHS might have not told Fornell the whole story either. They were quickly vying with the CIA for the least trustworthy kid at the table award. Although jumping chain of command was not unheard of for Gibbs, he suspected a call to Morrow right now would not end well for either party.

What Gibbs did know was that his agent, who had not worked a single day in the last 81 days, was going into an operation where the watchers were mostly blind, and he had less than 24 hours of preparation. This was on top of the other huge crater in the planning: He wasn't even cleared to do field work.

In the middle of his tooth-gnashing walk to his desk, Gibbs made a plan of his own. It involved getting Vance briefed and getting Fornell on the phone again. He was prepared to go to Vance's office when his phone chirped signaling he had a message. He squinted at the odd text on the screen.

" _Boss: Rules 15/35_ http: watch/temp_ ?v=1BYjU4 _5 min_ "

Gibbs read it. He understood the first part. Rule 15: Always work as a team. Rule 35: Always watch the watchers.

Considering he did not recognize the number that sent the message, he might have questioned it further, but his rules were not so widely known and quoted that the message (coupled with what looked like a web address) could be from anyone other than McGee. The "5 min" part sounded like a starting time. Looking at the time the message was sent and his own watch, Gibbs noted he had just one minute to spare.

Leaving his plan to contact Vance for later, Gibbs forwarded the text message (yes, he understood how to do that-Emily Fornell taught him though he was at a loss to remember why) to Fornell while he made his way to the sub-basement lab in search of someone to assist. After all, forwarding a message on his phone to another was one thing. Getting the whole internet address thing to come up on a screen other than his phone, which didn't have that capability anyway, needed a higher level of technical assistance.

He found that assistance settling in at her table with a fresh Caf-Pow at the ready as he entered the forensics lab.

"Abby," Gibbs hurried toward her and showed her the screen of his phone. "Pull this up."

She looked carefully at it and began typing automatically as she made her inquiry.

"And good morning to you, too, Gibbs," she said brightly. "Pulling up the link now. What is it?"

"Don't know," Gibbs replied as he looked with burning intensity at the screen before her as she began typing.

"Well, it's a public video sharing address," Abby said. "Looks my firewall says it is free of viruses, so yay us on for not catching herpes first thing this morning. We also seem to be its first visitor. Wow. A virgin moment. I'm feeling kind of proud right now."

Gibbs ignored the commentary as the link connected. The buffer cleared to reveal the image of a car interior as the vehicle pulled to a halt in a clearing at the foot of a hill. It was daylight and from the angle of the sun, it appeared to be morning, the same time as showed on the clocks around the NCIS building.

"Is this recorded or is it live?" Gibbs asked hurriedly as the picture showed the driver removing keys from the ignition then exiting the vehicle.

"It's…," Abby began then blinked as she looked at the screen. "It's McGee!"

"What?" Gibbs looked at her sharply. "I didn't see him."

"That was his hand," Abby asserted. "The one that took the keys. The driver is McGee. What is this? I'm recording it now, whatever it is."

"Abby: Answer me," Gibbs demanded. "Is this a recording?"

"No, it's a live feed," she shook her head. "This is real-time viewing. Where is he, and what is he doing?"

"How do you know it's McGee?" Gibbs asked again.

"I know his hands," Abby said matter-of-factly. "Those digits have wandered all across my keyboards fairly often over the years. I'd recognize his hands as quickly as my own. If I go back and screen capture one of the frames, I can show you the little scar in his right thumb's cuticle from when he slammed it in the door five years ago during… Hold on, there's audio, too."

 ** _oOo_**

The picture that came into view and brought sound. There was a slight breeze sounding on the microphone as the camera approached three men standing beside a black Chevy Suburban. One was tall and lanky. Another shorter with a large scar across his forehead, and the third was menacing looking with a scraggly beard. The lanky one looked pale and nervous, as if leaving the safety of the vehicle nearly did him in; the other two seemed tense but not fearful. Their husky, thick builds gave them a dangerous, threatening appearance.

They seemed oblivious to the fact they were being remotely viewed. The camera remained steady on them until it panned to the left to reveal a middle-aged woman with a river of curly reddish hair cascading to her shoulders. She was seated on the hood of a car parked to the side of the Suburban. She slid from her perch gracefully and sauntered into the scene.

 ** _oOo_**

 ** _Abby's Lab_**

"Pennybaker," Gibbs identified her quietly.

Miranda Pennybaker, the (allegedly) retired international thief and broker of valuable items, was absolutely not the friendly operative Gibbs had expected to see. When Fornell told him there was someone in the mix that was going to keep eyes on his agent, he had hoped it was someone other than a criminal with questionable alliances.

As he lifted his phone and dialed Fornell, Abby diagnosed the scene.

"McGee must have a camera imbedded into something he's wearing," she said. "From the way it's tracing, it's at eye level. I'm thinking something in a pair of glasses or on a hat. Gibbs, where is he and what is he doing? This doesn't look like Texas to me. Why is he working? What's going on?"

Gibbs paid the information and her question little attention as he was more focused on summoning someone to the phone. Fornell might have considered ignoring the call but finally answered.

"This is not the sort of back up that I would choose," Gibbs said tersely after the man's clipped _hello_.

"We making due with what we've got," Fornell said. "Besides, she's not the backup. She's the spotter. The backup is just beyond the trees behind the hill. We have air support, Jethro. Your agent will have to explain to me later how he managed this and who cleared him to do it. For now, let us do our job."

The phone clicked dead as they watched Miranda walk to McGee's side.

 ** _oOo_**

"Well, well, well," Miranda's accented voice sounded clearly over the link. "Nice to see you again, Tom. I'm sure you feel the same."

"Don't bet on it," McGee's said shortly.

His voice betrayed no surprise, but there was a hint of tension. To those not in the know, it might have sounded like ire or distrust. To those who knew McGee, it sounded more like a touch of fear being restrained by a wishful hope that his cover would not be blown.

"When was it last?" she asked as her grin turned serpentine. "Morocco? No. It was after that."

"Dubai," McGee replied. "Why are you here? I'm not doing business with you. Are you here to outbid me?"

"Come now, Tom, don't be so grumpy all the time," she said cheerfully as she approached him. "Paolo and his associates, Mr. Brinkley and Mr. Tyler, were under the impression you might not come—that someone else would show up in your place. I volunteered—for a price naturally—to vouch for you or at least confirm your identity. It's the least I could do for you after that little misunderstanding Caracas a few years ago."

"Misunderstanding?" McGee scoffed. "Still perfecting your gift for understatement, I see."

"Flirt," she winked at him then turned to the men in front of them. "Gentlemen, may I present to you my occasional business associate, Tom Miller. Tom, hard as it is for me to believe it, someone may have been trying to pass himself off as you to these gentlemen recently."

McGee huffed slightly as the sound of paper wrinkling could be heard then something fluttered briefly in the cameras field of vision before vanishing.

"You mean that guy?" McGee asked. "No one here was fooled, were they? 'Cause, I don't do business with idiots."

Miranda grinned and looked tauntingly at the men facing them. One bent down and retrieved the paper previously cast to the ground. The man who picked it up winced then showed it to his companions.

"What's this?" the lanky one asked.

"It looks like Tom's impersonator—or what's left of him," Miranda observed with an upturned nose. "Not a very close likeness even before he was dead."

"Blah, blah, blah," McGee said testily. "Can we move this along? I have other business and important clients who are waiting for me, and I respect them a hell of a lot more than I do any of you."

"Always the charmer," Miranda cooed as she smiled unoffended by the slight.

"You know our terms, Miller," the scarred man said. "Show us the money, and you can have the program."

McGee sighed with irritation and shook his head.

"Show you the money?" he repeated. "Where'd you learn to negotiation, a Tom Cruise movie? You're as bad as my cousin Tony, you know that? No, I'm not showing you anything. That's not how it works. I am here to buy from you. I have the money; ergo, I am in charge. You show me what you have first. One of my turbo geeks gave me a crash course on what this thing should look like. Let me see it. If I'm satisfied, we'll do business."

The men eyed each other suspiciously as Miranda hung casually off to the side.

"Oh please," she said with a yawn of believable boredom. "I can assure you Tom has a staff who do his technical work. He doesn't communicate through email even because he doesn't understand it. He doesn't even text. He never even carries a cellphone—it's why the CIA and FBI have never been able to track him. While that is wonderful for his ability to remain off the grid, it also means he's not going to understand your very technical computer language. Just show him what he asked so we can complete this transaction."

The men looked unimpressed. The bearded one snorted then stepped forward challengingly.

"Not tech savvy in this day and age?" he remarked. "I'm not buying it. How do you do business?"

"I have a staff who do what I tell them to do," McGee answered flatly. "If you were listening, Miranda just explained that."

"Fine, so if your _staff_ is smarter than you, they can cheat you—what then?" the beard asked with smirk.

"Then I kill them," McGee replied coldly.

Miranda stood up straighter at that comment and moved a step closer to the selling trio. She looked a touch nervous as she leaned into frame.

"I have no direct knowledge of that side of his business, but I would advise you not to doubt him," she said carefully. "Do with that what you will. Oh, also this, I guarantee you he is armed. Tom may be lost with anything electronic, but if it can fire a bullet, blow up or stab someone he is intimately familiar with it. That's bonus information, gentlemen, free of charge."

The scarred one looked at his partners, each who merely shrugged back. Their lack of reaction indicated they too were armed and felt no intimidation on the weapons front. Miranda gazed between the staring parties then sighed loudly.

"Oh, just show him what the code looks like," she huffed. "Obviously, he cannot memorize it all. Apparently, his staff told him to look for a few lines of text or numbers or whatever you used when writing it. So if you brought the real thing here, just let him peak at it. Otherwise, everyone should just agree to drive off now and not do business. Honestly, why do men make everything so difficult?"

The selling trio again exchanged looks. The lanky one then reached into the Suburban and pulled out a laptop. He placed it on the hood and booted up the machine. McGee approached them slowly.

 ** _oOo_**

 ** _Abby's Lab_**

"What is this?" she demanded of Gibbs as they viewed the feed. "What are we watching?"

"An undercover operation DHS promised us that McGee wouldn't be directly involved with," Gibbs snarled.

"What?" she asked. "Gibbs, he's not back at work yet. And who is Tom Miller actually?"

Gibbs shared her frustration and confusion, but he did not have any answers he could supply for most of her questions.

"Tom Miller is a DHS full-legend cover," Gibbs said.

He left the explanation at that. What he knew of the legend said Miller was an international dealer in things that you don't sell in the open: drugs, guns, whatever. The cover was based on a few rumors the CIA spread for their own purposes over the previous few years. Miranda, with her well-known and (oddly) trustworthy reputation in various nefarious fields, had agreed to fortify the legend by vouching for Miller—in exchange for immunity for something she did a few years back that finally got linked to her.

Abby took Gibb's brief answer and nodded despite feeling queasy. She kept her eyes riveted to the screen. As McGee/Miller approached the shiny black car, she caught sight of his appearance in a reflection off the vehicle door and window. He wore a dark T-shirt shirt, cargo pants, and aviator glasses. His hair was lighter than she recalled it being and attributed that to natural bleaching from spending several weeks in the drought ridden state of Texas. Although she only saw him in reflection, it also appeared he might have somewhat of a tan—again, something he rarely sported when he was working full time as more of his hours were spent under florescent lighting than sunlight. The shielding of his eyes with the sunglasses was most effective. McGee's eyes, she knew, were highly expressive and quickly telegraphed his sensitive nature. They radiated innocence and a soft sweetness even in his worst moods. Hiding them was imperative for this rouse. When his full attire was added to the tired (almost perturbed) air he carried along with the still slightly hollow look from his recovery period, his appearance made him look hard and a dangerous in a cagey way.

The image both worried and intrigued her.

"He looks more mercenary than McGee," Abby observed.

"That's the point," Gibbs said.

"Why is he doing this?" she asked with concern.

"Orders," Gibbs replied tightly.

They watched as the video feed showed the agent lean over the laptop. As only his hands and the computer were visible they did not have much of a show, but what they did see was encouraging to Gibbs. He nodded as he watched McGee's hands wander clumsily over the keyboard as if he didn't know which keys to push or what would happen if he tried any of them. Gibbs found that the most impressive part of the performance thus far. McGee not appearing at home with a keyboard at his fingertips was a spectacular bit of acting. He was willing to buy that "Miller" didn't know much about computers.

"Who would order him to do this?" Abby gasped. "He's hasn't even come back to work work for us yet."

Gibbs did not reply. His agent had been with JTTF for the last three days and was unfortunately on hand when word got to the group that the DHS agent they were supposed to send in as Miller was killed in a car wreck. Pennybaker was supposed to be sticking to a script she was going to run with the original Miller; however, it appeared to Gibbs from their clipped discourse that they were now making it up as they went.

When Gibbs did not respond to her question promptly, Abby grew more worried.

"Whose stupid idea is it for him to do this?" Abby gaped. "This whole thing sounds like something McGee would write in a novel."

"Well, there's a reason for that," Gibbs inclined his head. "It was partly his idea."

"And someone thought it was a good idea?" she gaped. "Are they nuts? Tell these people aren't the leading brains behind our national security. Gibbs, this is crazy. They're going to get him killed!"

Gibbs held his tongue on that; however, her point was not without merit and prompted his next action.

"Abby, step out of here," he ordered as he snapped his fingers and pointed to the door. "Now."

"Why?" she asked nervously.

"Because you're not read into this, and I don't know what's going to happen next," he said firmly pointing to the door. "Go. Now."

His tone and expression were sufficient motivation for her to obey. Reluctantly, she left her lab and conveniently left the door slightly open as she did so. She stood in the hallway straining to hear anything that was happening inside.

Gibbs watched the video with tense and anxious eyes. He knew that he would never have green lighted this substitute in the original plan; hell, he never agreed to loan his agent initially. There were too many possibilities for error; too many variables that could not be controlled; and (most of all) there was no suitable back up close enough to ensure the security of the operatives. Cowboy acts were the specialty of his mentor, but even this was beyond what Mike Franks would have tried. Eyes on the targets only through a hastily connected internet link, no back up, and no extraction plan that made any sense.

It was a recipe for disaster.

 ** _oOo_**

"Good enough for you?" the scarred man asked as he closed the laptop, nearly snapping McGee's fingers in it.

"Looks like gibberish me," McGee replied. "But I saw basically what I expected. How do I know it will work?"

"Trust, Mr. Miller," the lanky one said. "We wouldn't screw you. We're your partners in this."

"No," McGee disagreed in a curt voice. "You're working for me, not with me."

"Sorry," Paolo, the lanky one said.

"Don't apologize," McGee said in a disgusted tone. "It's a sign of weakness. I don't do business with weak people."

Miranda could be heard clearing her throat. McGee/Miller turned toward her to see her move closer.

"You also don't come to do business unprepared, Tom," Miranda said, injecting herself into the discussion again. "You've seen what you wanted to see. Now, commence the transaction already. I don't know about you, but I would rather be some place with more shade, more cell coverage, and less testosterone. Be a darling and make this quick. I don't get paid until they do."

McGee did not move or say anything for a moment. Gibbs wondered briefly if the image in the screen was merely frozen, but the slight ruffling of Miranda's hair indicated the feed was still sending live images. Back at the lab, Gibbs clenched his fists nervously feeling sickeningly like he did in the seconds before watching his agent get gunned down in Afghanistan. This time, however, what happened next wasn't so worrisome.

"Deal," McGee said then turned to walk toward his car.

He opened the trunk and moved several items, none of which were visible in the shadow from the lid. Eventually, he extracted an attaché case and carried toward the Suburban.

"I'll count it for you if you like," Miranda teased.

What their business counterparts would have liked never was said as the sound of rotors from a helicopter filled the air as dust began swirling.

"We'll take care of that," the scarred one shouted as he grabbed the briefcase from McGee/Miller and the laptop then made a dash for the chopper that barely touched down. Several muffled pops, identifiable to Gibbs as gunshots only from his years of experience, sounded over the feed.

"Keys!" Miranda shouted as she raced close to McGee. From the change in his posture, she had either bumped into him or torn something form his hand roughly. "Get in!"

Other noises arrived, perhaps a second chopper or the one that had arrived had lifted off and was hovering over them. In the chaos of the moment, the landscape on screen suddenly tumbled end over end then wound up being upside down. A host of black, military issued boots trampled around the scene as voices and squawking radios filled the air. The camera broadcast for another minute before the feed went to static and the screen went to black.

Abby rushed back into the lab, unable to contain herself after overhearing the final seconds of the transmission clearly.

"Gibbs?" Abby asked in a haunted voice as she ran to him. "What just happened?"

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Tony rolled his eyes as he listened to the incessant babble in his ear from the cyber unit. He could barely stand to hear this kind of nonsense when it was coming from the only computer geek he had any patience for; his threshold for getting it from anyone else was very low.

"Keating," Tony cut the man off brusquely. "I didn't ask how to do it. I asked if you could do it. I just need to know if there is a way to determine if someone accesses the computers when they are on an aircraft carrier."

The former agent returned to computer tech scoffed in response.

"Everyone with access to the system has a Single Identity Verification card, or SIV, that is sort of a key that unlocks the computer for their use," Keating explained for the second time. "Each time the SIV is used, it gets captured in a data log."

"And what if someone didn't have one of those STD things?" Tony asked.

"SIV," Keating corrected him tersely. "As I said, the only way to access the ship's mainframe is to use the SIV."

"So no one can hack into it?" Tony asked. "I happen to know that's not true because I did it… sort of… with help…. and permission. I just had to use my normal login name and my password."

"Well, you're still on the old Personal Directory Login basis," Keating said testily. "Most of your team actually isn't SIV compliant."

"Why is that?" Tony wondered, looking at his computer as if it had suddenly aged rapidly before his eyes. "Did we get left out? Are we being punished?"

"You each have a waiver on file," the tech analyst said tetchily. "Director Vance granted the waivers at Agent McGee's request six years ago. Your team runs applications that are not SIV compliant, meaning they don't work with that sort of sign-in. They required the old name and password routine we were all forced to give up in 2009. Your sign-in gives you all greater access to systems in the squad room than the other agents, but it also means you need to keep changing your passwords every 30 days or you get locked out."

Tony scowled as he realized that monthly nightmare was McGee's doing, and all for the sake of some nifty little programs he liked to run. Tony considered lodging a complaint, but then realized he did not know which programs he would lose use of it they made the upgrade. That quandary was sufficient to keep his mouth shut… for now. Still, McWaiver had some explaining to do when he finally returned.

"So you're telling me you can't determine if someone logged in on one of these super computers unless they've got the magic credit card," Tony summarized. "So there's no way to tell if McGee did any computer work on the carrier during his duty in Afghanistan?"

Keating sighed and reminded himself to be patient. After all, this was still better than if he was working tech support and had to walk agents through how to reboot their machines daily. He felt sympathy for those techs. He knew one tech had standing orders to keep a watchful eye on websites that sold old technology in order to keep a ready supply of ancient flip phones so that Gibbs wasn't without one. Finding for the Holy Grail was starting to look like an easier task than that.

"Agent McGee actually has both sign-in abilities," Keating explained. "Do you want me to check the user log for a specific timeframe as well?"

"Yes," Tony groaned. "That's why I called you in the first place. McGee. Harry Truman. May. This year. Please."

He gripped his head and lay it on his desk as he resisted the urge to pound his receiver on the desktop as well. After listening to several minutes of clicking and clacking, Keating returned.

"There is no record of him accessing the ship's computer at all in May of year," Keating reported. "He did sign in with his SIV several times from a Marine base in Afghanistan, but it only looks like he accessed his email. No searches were logged from there, and there is no additional activity other than a single teleconference to MTAC using the Sat Comm Network on…"

"I know the date," Tony said darkly, unimpressed at the short memories of his fellow NCIS employees.

He hung up no better informed than when the brainstorm to check the system hit him that morning as he showered. He checked his notes again, hearing Gibbs phone ring unanswered. In the notes, there was something jotted down about McGee stating he needed to go to the ship to access the secure network.

"What did you really do on that ship?" Tony asked quietly as he looked at the empty desk. "You got lots of _splainin'_ to do, Timmy."

He grinned unconsciously at the thought of it. McGee was rumored to be back in the DC area. Tony had not seen or spoken to him, but he overheard a passing and terse comment from Gibbs on the phone (possibly to Fornell) two days earlier about JTTF and McGee doing some computer program consulting for them. Tony felt a good kind of anxiousness to get his partner back. Not that working with Bishop was bad, but something was missing. He and McGee had a rhythm that had withstood the loss of two previous partners and was still breaking in a third. He needed the Yin to return to his Yang; the peanut butter to mesh again with his chocolate…

"Nutter Butters," he yelped suddenly and cheerfully before jotting down the item on a post it note.

"Did you say something to me, Anthony?" Ducky asked as he passed through the squad room.

"No, sorry, not to you, Ducky," Tony smiled. "Just making a note for myself. I was wondering what to get McGee as a welcome back gift. I'm gonna grab him a package of Nutter Butters. He's back in some capacity this week. Or so the grapevine says."

As he spoke, he again heard Gibbs' phone ring. It caught his attention as he tried to focus on Ducky's voice.

"So I heard as well," the doctor smiled. "It will be good to have him back, but we must remember that despite our joy at his return, this will be an adjustment period for him. You've been without your loyal sidekick for many weeks, but it would be wise to resist the urge to spring your considerable and creative enthusiasm on him immediately. Timothy has been through a great ordeal. Life, as he knew it, changed rapidly; he may not be quite the same man you knew previously—not at first anyway."

After offering that sobering assessment, the medical examiner continued toward the back elevator to being his day. Tony pondered the information and cast concerned eyes at the missing agent's empty desk. Tony knew a bit about how grave injuries and near tragedies could change person. Not all of it was good or ever truly healed. He crumpled his post it note and tossed it in the trash as he made a mental note to play the reunion by ear.

Another thing playing in his ears was the incessant trill of Gibbs' desk phone. Normally, Tony did not answer the man's phone. After two tries at most, callers usually just called the switchboard and left a message to be delivered to him. Most everyone knew not to leave him voicemail. Still, the phone had rung once already this hour and when Tony's own phone did not ring after Gibbs' went unanswered, that meant it wasn't dispatch or autopsy or forensics calling. Those were the only frequent users of Gibbs' desk number. Therefore, answering this call seemed wise.

"Agent Gibbs' desk," Tony said authoritatively. "This is Special Agent DiNozzo."

"Tony," the voice of Agent Pride carried smoothly along the line. "Where is Jethro at?"

"Uh, not sure right now," Tony looked around. "Haven't seen him yet. How are things in the Big Easy?"

"Rolling along," the man said with a smile in his voice.

"Is there something I can help you with?" Tony asked, envious of the man's relaxed tone.

"No," Pride said. "Just playing phone tag is all. It was my turn to call him. I've been away on a little covert recon for a bit. Saw that he had tried to call me a couple times recently. I tried him, got the voicemail, but you know…"

"He doesn't listen to his voicemail," Tony nodded. "In his defense, he probably just doesn't know how to access it. Only McGee would be foolish enough to try and teach him and…. Well, lately…"

Pride chuckled knowingly.

"How's McGee doing?" the southern agent asked. "Is he back at work yet?"

"Not precisely," Tony replied. "Any message for Gibbs?"

Pride sighed and considered the option but ultimately declined. He thought it better to speak to his friend in person in case the man had additional questions.

"Nah, I'll try to reach him again real soon," Pride explained. "That is, if he's still looking into his San Francisco cold case about that drug dealer."

Tony's ears perked up at that. His interest sharpened. He sat in Gibbs' chair and took a deep breath.

"Actually, he has me looking into that," Tony said. "You know something about it?"

There was a long pause followed by a sigh. Tony waited patiently for the response.

"I may have heard something a while back about someone closing a few cases similar to that one back in the day," Pride replied. "I'd really rather talk to Jethro first about it. He should hear it from me."

"And why is that?" Tony inquired.

"Let's just say second hand is better than third when it comes to family," Pride said cryptically. "Good talking to you, Tony. Tell your boss to be by his phone more often."

"You could call his cell," Tony suggested. "If you don't have the number…"

"I have it," the agent said affably. "He's not answering that either. Does he get a signal in that basement of his? Between the boats and the Bourbon, maybe the calls don't make it through."

"They do when he wants them to," Tony said. "I'll tell him you called."

He sat at the desk sporting a pensive expression as the line disconnected.

Gibbs not at his desk; not answering calls from an old friend; not following up on inquiries into the cold case he had Tony devoting all his spare time to. It did not add up. Tony wandered back to his desk with his face locked in an expression of concentration and confusion, which was how Bishop found him several minutes later when she arrived to start her day.

"You're here early," she noted and cast he eyes at Gibbs' desk. "No coffee cup? Where is Gibbs? MTAC?"

"No idea," Tony shook his head waved his hand at her. "Do the thing with the computer that tells us where his cellphone is. Hey, do you know anything about computer STDs?"

Bishop shook her head, not sure what he meant and not interested enough to ask. She was also a little put off to be ordered to conduct the GPS search for Gibbs. She was well aware that McGee had taught Tony to use their triangulation software long ago. She had noticed, in their fellow agent's absence, that Tony was merely shifting the burden of tasks he usually foisted to McGee onto her. At first, she thought it was merely an efficiency alteration of their dynamic. Tony would take some of McGee's duties and she would take others to make sure the team ran as smoothly as possible despite their decreased number. It was only after she began tallying what he was making her do that she began to suspect he had merely shifted all of the duties he would dump on McGee onto her.

"I need to figure out where the Boss is," Tony snapped his fingers at her to hurry up with his request as he continued to puzzle over his short chat with Pride.

"Just a second," Bishop said, resisting the task, as she turned instead to her email. "I have to follow up on a few things first."

Tony sighed loudly then began typing, as she knew he would. Despite ordering her to run the GPS location, he began doing it himself as he did not receiving instant acquiescence from her. While he scowled at his screen, Bishop read through the long email string that left her gaping and baffled. She pulled up several saved records on her hard drive and compared them with the information she had recently received. She scoffed and shook her head.

"The odds of this being just a coincidence are astronomical," she shook her head.

"Is this the part where I'm supposed to be intrigued and ask what you're talking about?" Tony remarked. "Because I'm in the middle of a complicated computer process to track down a single cellular signal amidst all the others on the planet right now."

Bishop huffed and glared at him.

"Double click the triangle icon on your desk top, type Gibb's number in the search bar that appears, then hit enter," she said tersely.

Tony winced at the curt delivery but happily followed her instructions. It was the icon of choice that had stumped him. The IT department had changed several of their program icons recently, and Tony wasn't sure which to use or look for even as he perused the scattering of little thumbnails on his desktop. It was so much easier when the picture was just of a phone, he mused silently.

"This makes no sense," Bishop continued to shake her head.

"I know, but I think the triangle is supposed to represent a search grid of sorts 'cause they call it triangulation so…," Tony shrugged.

Bishop shook her head and looked at him squarely.

"Not that," she said. "This. What I'm looking at and what I got in email. When I put it all together, it makes no sense. I got a line on the gun—the one that belonged to the DC cop but that ended up in Afghanistan."

"The one that fired the shots at McGee," Tony remarked, all humor and playfulness gone from his tone.

"Yeah, that one," Bishop replied. "There's a link, kind of obscure and not exactly direct, but still there between the attack on Foxtrot Camp and your cold case."

"There's a link with the gun?" Tony asked incredulously. "How? It wasn't even manufactured until this century started."

He stood up quickly and crossed to the back of her desk. He looked at what on her screen was making her utter this ludicrous statement. After a cryptic call from Agent Pride and now Bishop's farfetched claim, his senses were on full alert.

"The only thing connecting the two incidents is McGee," Tony said. "And even that's not really established yet. He might be a child witness who was never interviewed in a murder that was never investigated, and he is the one who was hit by bullets from this gun."

"Right," Bishop nodded then pointed to the email that prompted this discussion. "Now, for the cold case, there was no investigation because a DEA agent stepped in and got the inquiry closed. So tell me, how likely is it that decades later, a family member of that DEA agent ends up in possession of a gun that shoots McGee?"

"What?" Tony gaped.

"Prior to his death in 2011, Daniel Calvin, the DC Metro detective whose family reported the gun stole," Bishop explained, "was married to Karen Johnson, the sister of DEA Agent Oliver Johnson, who closed the San Francisco investigation. I mean, in some respects that's a tenuous connection, but it's there. It would be crazy to think it's actually connected except…"

"Except there's no logical reason for the connection to exist unless it's real," Tony finished her sentence as he got a tingling feeling in his gut.

Bishop dropped her voice and spoke in a low and doubtful tone, as if speaking the words aloud would make them either more insane or more conspiratorial.

"It can't be a revenge plot, can it?" she asked as she wrinkled her nose in disbelief. "Why would anyone wait so long to silence a witness who's never spoken about the crime to anyone? As far as anyone was concerned, it was over and done with years ago."

"Unless…," Tony began then fell silent as he stared distantly toward the windows.

"Unless what?" she prodded.

"Unless it's not over," Tony offered as he left her desk for his own. "Dead guy in San Francisco looks like a drug hit. DEA was involved somehow. Helmand Province is known for a lot of bad exports: terrorists, good guys in body bags, and…"

"Heroine," Bishop nodded. "Drug connection. But so many years later? It's still not logical."

"You mean it's not complete," Tony corrected her as he made his way to his desk. He slid effortlessly into his shoulder holster then grabbed his jacket and keys. "Maybe there is a simple coincidence here that's had us looking in the wrong direction all along, but we didn't realize it. What was the only connection we thought we had?"

"McGee… and Admiral Porter," she replied with a quizzical look on her face. "So you're saying what? Wrong place, wrong time, both times for both of them? Really? That doesn't seem a little flimsy to you?"

"Oh, it's flimsy," Tony nodded as an eager grin overtook his face as he prepared to leave. "But even flimsy has some substance to it. That's why it's flimsy but not nothing. Stay here. Tell Gibbs what you know when he comes back from wherever he is."

His computer beeped and revealed the GPS location that Tony's search had found. He nodded then huffed his lack of surprise. Gibbs, it appeared, was in the building. Somehow, that figured for Tony. As the signal had been detectable, that meant he was not in the Director's office as that was shielded from cell searches. Nor was he in MTAC, for the same reasons. So left only three logical places: He was in the evidence garage, autopsy, or in the lab with Abby. None raised any worries for the agent.

"Where are you going?" Bishop asked.

"You've heard the term send a thief to catch a thief?" Tony remarked as he breezed by her desk. "Well, there's a nasty rodent in the hen house. Vance won't let us open fire on it, so I'm getting something a little stealthier to do the trick."

"Meaning what?" she demanded as she watched him walk to the elevator.

"I know a weasel who's really good a digging without anyone noticing," Tony grinned. "He's also got a knack for doing it legally with the proper political backing."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Abby's Lab_**

As the blackness on the screen lingered, Abby tried frantically to resume the signal. When her efforts failed, she turned her terrified gaze to Gibbs, who snatched up his phone and dialed. His call went unanswered for four rings before it summoned anyone.

"Tobias," Gibbs seethed. "What the hell just happened?"

"Calm down," Fornell said. "You saw everything we just did. We're waiting for them to get to a point where we can have radio contact again. Looked like Miranda bolted and took McGee with her. Not a bad thing since may have a runner."

"A runner?" Gibbs questioned. "You lost one of them?"

"The cagey and slippery Paolo—the lanky one who also happens to be the one we suspect is the ringleader," Fornell snorted. "Looked to me like he got in the chopper they brought and got away. We didn't have permission to engage in the air. I'm fairly certain we got the other two, Brinkley and Tyler. A little massaging of the chatter that goes out from this, and we can preserve the Miller legend in case the taskforce needs to use it again."

"I don't give a damn about your cover ID," Gibbs growled. "Where the hell are my agent and Pennybaker? You find them. Now!"

Fornell sighed and did his best to keep calm despite the dragon roaring in his ear.

"I know you want answers, but this is a covert mission," Fornell said. "We're slightly compromised as it is since McGee put it out on an open website for anyone to view. Luckily, it looks like only you and I were the ones who saw it. Look, I can't radio the strike team yet for a full sit rep. If they open up a radio channel now, it could blow everything—not to mention it might destroy a few million dollars of sensitive scientific equipment we're not supposed to bruise in anyway."

Gibbs did not care about equipment or costs or rules of the Quiet Zone. He need answers. He was determined to get them.

"Tell me how to get in touch with them," Gibbs said.

"I have a number for her," Fornell offered as he cut him off. "We gave her a cell to carry specifically for this op. Call that and see if you have any luck."

Fornell rattled off the digits, mostly as a diversion. He had no hope the number would connect. The woman was under strict orders not to turn on her cell until they were well outside the perimeter of the zone, and that was still a good 10 minutes away even if she was motoring at top speed the whole time. However, Fornell figured giving Gibbs the number and letting him try to call it at least three times would buy enough time that when he did call Fornell again, the FBI agent would have something of value to report.

Gibbs scribbled the numbers he was given then hung up. He immediately began dialing the combination. The device on the other end rang three times before being answered lyrically by a smooth British accent.

"My, my, Gibbs," Miranda said with delight in her voice. "So many gentlemen callers lately. I feel 23 all over again."

"Is he with you?" Gibbs asked brusquely.

"In a way," Miranda said playfully.

"What way?" Gibbs demanded as Abby stood beside him chewing her lip and rocking nervously from foot to foot muttering ' _oh my god_ ' over and over under her breath. "Where is he?"

"Did you mean Tom Miller?" Miranda asked with a laugh in her voice. "I regret to report that he is gone. However, his more sensitive and less thuggish alter ego is not far. He just needed a moment to catch his breath, so to speak."

Abby began asking quietly what was being said and if McGee was alright. Gibbs held up his finger to silence her.

"What does that mean?" Gibbs asked.

"I wouldn't want to blow his cover as a suave international bad boy, but as you give me no choice," she sighed in an amused fashion. "He's vomiting or rather catching his breath after doing so. It's nerves and adrenaline, I suspect. It can happen to those not used to this sort of thing. He held it together longer than I expected. I was willing to bet he didn't make it a mile from the rendezvous point before it happened, but in the end he got nearly 10 miles. I find that impressive."

"Gibbs?" Abby's strained voice called to him as her face scrunched in worry.

"He's fine," he whispered as she folded her hands gratefully, as if in prayer, and whispered the words _thank you_ to the air. Gibbs then turned his attention back to his call. "Put him on."

Miranda sighed then called out.

"Oh darling," she announced. "Someone rather surly and abrupt wants to talk to you. Are you feeling up to it? Now, now, you can put the evil eye away. First off, it's not very convincing coming from you. Next, it never works on me anyway. Here, be a good little agent and report in."

A muffled noise carried over the line, although what was said precisely was not clear, before McGee's voice sounded shaky but undeniable.

"Boss?" McGee guessed as he took the phone.

"You okay?" Gibbs asked.

"Yeah," he replied.

"What the hell happened?" Gibbs demanded.

"They had a helicopter," McGee said unnecessarily.

"Yeah," Gibbs huffed. "I saw that, McGee."

"Well, I didn't expect they were getting that kind of a pickup so it took me, and apparently the strike team, by surprise," McGee explained. "It happened pretty fast, Boss. One second it was just us, then there were choppers all around. Miranda grabbed the keys and then…. She drives like Ziva, Boss. Worse than her even, I think."

Gibbs rolled his eyes at the desperate and perturbed observation at the end. Considering what they had just watched on screen, the least stressful part of this should have been the getaway drive. Then again, Gibbs reminded himself with an exasperated but relieved sigh, this was McGee.

"Are you both clear?" Gibbs asked.

"Yeah," he replied. "A lot of dust behind us, but no one followed us out that I saw. I couldn't tell if our helo kept theirs on the ground or not. I lost sight of everything pretty quickly. We didn't hear any gunfire so…"

Gibbs had heard some, but saw no reason to mention it. He let McGee live with the delusion that the blown op was safer than it was.

"Was the taskforce able to scramble a satellite to observe any of it?" McGee asked.

"Don't know," Gibbs said. "Fornell and I only got a look from your little spy camera. I thought this was all happening in a no transmission zone. How did we watch it?"

"Uh," McGee paused and stopped himself from responding with the obvious and simple response of ' _the internet_.' "It was a compressed microburst from a live feed, Boss. To do the bursts, I programmed in a 10 second buffer so while it looked like you were watching it live, you were acutally lagging a few seconds behind. I had to do that because the only way to send the signal was to use a booster which had a…"

"Quiet Zone," Gibbs repeated as he cut off his agent's rambling. "No transmissions allowed. What changed? Your location?"

McGee sighed as he realized he had not understood the question. It made more sense that Gibbs was seeking location information rather than a technical discussion.

"No, we were (actually, we still are) in the National Radio Quiet Zone, the West Virginia part of it anyway, but I was able to broadcast because…," his voice trailed off with a wave of guilt. "Well, I sort of took the Quiet Zone off mute for a little while."

Gibbs shook his head as his face scrunched in confusion.

"You did what?" he asked.

Abby blinked at the sternness of his tone. She pleaded with her eyes for more information but received at terse shake of the head.

The Quiet Zone, as it was known, was thousands of square miles of land in which there was no radio signals or transmission of any kind allowed. No cell phones. No satellite TV. No radios even. The purpose was to keep the area electronically quiet so an array of sensitive scientific equipment pointed at the sky, in the form of radio telescopes, could work and conduct research without any interference at all. They were finely calibrated machines that would be ruined if even a single blip came into their range normally.

"Well, I didn't do it… exactly," McGee explained hurriedly. "I got in touch with my friend Steve Chase, who helps run the radio scope array at Green Bank. See, he told to me a week or two ago that since I'm not working full time yet that I should come and see the new set up before they have it fully operational. They're going to start running off some amazing modified flexpod servers that can run calculations faster than anything NASA has. Anyway, Steve also mentioned that to bring the new servers on line that his team has been taking the scopes offline for the upgrades periodically all summer—they're just not telling the public they're doing it so that people don't get into the habit of using broadcast devices in the Quiet Zone which would damage all the sensors. Well, yesterday when it looked like taskforce's plan was going south fast and they came up with the new plan…"

"Stupid plan is more accurate, Tim," Gibbs offered flatly. "You were saying about the zone?"

McGee sighed, knowing this was not the last he would heard about the idiotic plan that did start with his… less than optimal (and likely very stupid) suggestion.

"I called Steve when I knew what the plan was," McGee replied. "I thought there were too many variables with the set up and I didn't think it was wise for us to be completely blind in there. So, I asked Steve if the array was going to be offline today; he said he would be running diagnostics throughout the week so I asked him not to ask me why then I requested for him to run a diagnostic from 5 a.m. to noon today. He agreed, because it actually allowed him to take his daughter to…"

"McGee," Gibbs growled as his agent began drifting off topic.

"Right," he refocused. "Once I knew it wouldn't damage anything, I knew it was okay to covertly upload the feed from the camera to a signal booster, which I put in the trunk of the car. Then, I just opened a link to…"

"Okay, fine," Gibbs groaned. "From what we saw after you dropped your glasses, it looks like the team rounded up someone. Looks like one of them bolted with the computer though. They're back at square one with getting that code and linking it to Grayson."

"Uh, no they're not," McGee said sheepishly. "The team might not have the program, but I do."

"How?" Gibbs asked. "They let you see it for 30 seconds. Fornell said it's thousands of lines of computer gibberish."

"It's not actually gibberish, Boss," McGee began. "See, every character has a value and when you…."

Gibbs pinched the bridge of his nose as he interrupted.

"McGee, if I was there, you would be feeling the distinct sensation of my hand at the back of your head right now," Gibbs warned.

"My bad, Boss," he replied as the muffled sound of something being swatted carried over the line. "Taken care of."

Gibbs shook his head as he heard the contact then rolled his eyes. He had only been half serious when he told his agent to consider himself disciplined. However, hearing that he acted in Gibbs' absence served as a good check on McGee's state of mind; it meant that he was comprehending and following orders. His rambling about techno-babble was also a good barometer that he was functioning with most of his A-game intact. Gibbs relaxed slightly.

"You were saying about the program," Gibbs then prompted. "Fornell said they needed at least half of the code to make an ID. What do you have?"

"I have all of it—100 percent of it," McGee replied. "I leeched it from them. When they let me see the script on the screen, I had a remote scanner on me. I had to keep it over the laptop for a few seconds to make sure it got a lock—that's why it took me so long to pretend to find the scroll keys. "

Gibbs grunted his acknowledgement. He had found the behavior more impressive when he thought it was an act rather than a technical function. Still, he reasoned, if it worked, who was he to judge? Oblivious to the critique, McGee continued his unnecessary explanation.

"The scanner is like the one credit card thieves use to electronically pickpocket people," he said. "We used one a few years ago when Ziva's father was in town and the Mossad team was around. Anyway, the taskforce had one in the van. It was smaller and more sophisticated than the hand-held one we used so I… borrowed it."

Gibbs smirked. The guilt in his agent's voice was expected and telling. For all of his Boy Scout attributes, McGee simply could not help himself when there were technological gadgets within reach that begged to be tried.

"Tell Agent Fornell I'll bring it back—I promise," McGee continued. "I imbedded it in my watch casing. I replaced the timing mechanism with the scanning device and used the watch battery to run it. It worked. It's sort of a poor man's James Bond device, I guess—just don't tell Tony I said that. I can't handle listening to him do his Sean Connery impersonation for the next few weeks anytime he looks at his watch or asks me the time."

"McGee," Gibbs seethed as his patience grew thin while prodding his agent to get to the point.

"I used the scanner to pirate a copy of the code and broadcast it to the laptop in my car," he summarized. "Looks like I got more than just the code, Boss. I haven't looked at much of it, but there was more on that hard drive than just one program, and I think I got most of what was there."

McGee paused as an odd feeling washed over him. First, he felt a rush of accomplishment. Although this was a failed op in several respects, he felt whole again in a giddy and childlike way, like he hadn't just spent the previous three months recuperating from a near death experience. He also felt startled and a little off-kilter. There was a quickening of his heart rate and a clammy feeling that mixed with a sense of déjà vu. He had a quick flash of his father again ordering him to solve the case. He shook his head to clear it and focus.

Gibbs, oblivious to his agent's momentary disorientation, nodded at the report. He was grateful for the (mostly) understandable explanation and possible windfall of evidence that someone might find useful. His greater interest at that moment, however, was returning his agent to where he belonged. Gibbs asked succinctly for a location and whether assistance was needed to complete their extraction.

"Miranda and I are… in the middle of nowhere basically, Boss," McGee replied. "I estimate we're a little over 200 miles from DC. We can be there in four… well, probably three hours if Miranda drives like this all the time. I can bring the laptop directly to DHS headquarters."

"No," Gibbs shook his head. "You bring it to me. I'll deal with the taskforce."

"You got it, Boss," McGee said. "Uh, one little thing. About getting into the Navy Yard…"

His voice sounded uncertain and hesitant. It did not take much figuring for Gibbs to determine why. Relatively a novice at being in the center of an undercover operations like this, McGee at least had known enough not to carry any of his own ID with him when he went to the rendezvous point.

"You've got no ID on you so you can't get onto the base," Gibbs guessed. "Your creds as still locked in my desk. I'll call the main gate and let them know you're coming. Someone will meet you there and escort you until you have your credentials back."

"Thanks, and um, could you see if someone from the taskforce will also give back my wallet and keys?" McGee asked sounding worried. "I left everything in the surveillance van this morning. I've been through enough in the last couple months. I think making me waste an entire day at the DMV to get my license replaced is punishment I didn't earn."

Gibbs shook his head and hung up without responding, although he did make a mental note to ask Fornell to return his agent's possessions. He then turned his head to look at Abby who was pale and appeared to be holding her breath.

"He's fine," Gibbs assured her. "He's on his way back."

She threw her arms around Gibbs and thanked him profusely as the bound up tension in her let loose. Even her hair relaxed. She beamed at Gibbs as she stepped back and sighed with relief.

"Okay, I'll be here; I'll wait for him," she nodded. "I can help him with the code."

"No," Gibbs shook his head. "You're not a part of this, and he's not going to work on it—not today anyway. By the time he arrives, he'll be past his allowed working hours. He's handing off the laptop to me and then he's going home. No side trips. No visits—no exceptions."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	20. Chapter 20

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Highway 250_**

McGee watched the landscape slide by as West Virginia melted into Virginia. He tipped his head back and tried to stay awake as the sun did her best to lull him to sleep. He was tired, but it was a good kind of tired—the kind he preferred because it wasn't pain or medication induced. It was from being up late and working early.

And there was maybe a bit of uncomfortable fatigue from the adrenaline rush and feelings of panic that accompanied it when the plan went to hell there at the end…. Okay and maybe a touch of weariness caused by throwing up after it was done.

But all in all, it was still better than laying in a hospital bed with tubes jammed into him in most uncomfortable spots.

He had been nervous taking on this operation. He had regretted his suggestion that he might be able to pose as Tom Miller the very second the word tumbled over his lips. He knew he wasn't ready to be in the field again. If Gibbs had been in the loop (and within 100 miles) he would have vetoed the suggestion and sent him to stand in the elevator as punishment for a long while before getting lectured. At a few points, McGee had wished that was precisely what had happened.

But it all turned out for the best, relatively speaking. Since conversing with Gibbs, McGee had been in touch with Fornell and briefed him on the exchange plan to turn over the evidence. Fornell initially wanted to meet up with McGee and Miranda to have the evidence handed to him directly, but a reminder that McGee worked for Gibbs and not the taskforce was all the coaxing the FBI agent needed. McGee suspected Fornell was hightailing it back to DC to be at the NCIS building when McGee walked through the front door.

Walking through that door was something he had yearned to do for months. Now that moment was nearly upon him, and he felt… nervous.

"Something wrong?" Miranda asked as she peered over her large, round sunglasses from the driver's seat. "You seem tense."

"No, just anxious to turn this over," McGee partially fibbed as he tapped the laptop resting on his knees.

He did feel that way, but he knew his real hesitation was what she likely noticed. Rather than give her more to scrutinize, he rifled through the glove compartment and pulled out a discarded pair of sunglasses, a second set that was available if the ones he was wearing earlier had malfunctioned. With the transmitter in the trunk no longer working, they were essentially just shades made of plastic and wire. Still, they kept the blistering morning sun from burning out his corneas as they drove into the rising rays. They also hid his eyes from view.

They were his weakness in any covert endeavor, he knew. It was Abby who first clued him into that. They played poker a few times while waiting for her systems to spit out answers. McGee was used to playing with fellow programmers—a type of card shark that was more about running algorithms in your head for hand probabilities. Abby, a card counter no doubt, also read people. McGee's eyes, she claimed, gave away everything. They were his weakness for they truly were the clichéd windows to his soul, which was why he insisted the camera be placed in sunglasses and not in a shirt pin or imbedded in the bill of a baseball hat. In order to be Tom Miller, he needed the glasses to hide Timothy McGee.

Now, in the car with Miranda, he felt that need again.

"So, you were telling me you haven't seen any of your compatriots in many weeks," Miranda prodded. "You must be excited to get back to them."

"They don't know I'm coming in as far as I know," McGee shrugged. "Only Gibbs and Director Vance know I'm here."

She snorted her disbelief.

"You've been gone for two months, out of commission for nearly three, yet you didn't tell anyone you were coming home?" she questioned. "Is this a clinical depression thing, or do you simply have no friends?"

She asked the question with a definite blunt rudeness, but McGee took no offense. He sensed that someone like her had few (and perhaps at times zero) friends. Miranda did not seem to be someone who would judge others for the same. However, her options were not the only answers nor were they the truth of the story.

"I just wasn't sure I was coming back so soon since all this was spur of the moment," McGee explained. "Everyone has been busy picking up the slack left by me not being there so I haven't heard from anyone much. That's all."

"Oh," she sighed pityingly. "That's all? Ouch. Sounds like there is some definite water under that bridge. They ignored you. That must hurt. They do have busy jobs, though, and Gibbs no doubt is a bit of a slave driver. You seem to know that, so your sadness must be for something more."

"I'm not sad," he shook his head to no avail.

"Did you break up with someone at the office before all this happened?" Miranda asked. "It wasn't that Agent DiNozzo was it?"

McGee jumped in his seat and twisted roughly to face her with his indignation.

"What?" he yelped as he shook his head vigorously. "Why would you…? Tony and I are not… I am not… No. Nothing like that."

"So it is someone," she nodded and grinned knowingly. "Don't worry. I didn't honestly think you were having a dangerous liaison with Agent DiNozzo; although, he comes on a bit strong like he is hiding something rather naughty, and you are obviously a rather prim gentleman."

McGee blinked and scoffed.

"P-prim?" he stammered. "You… you think I'm prim?"

"Well, you are," Miranda said confidently. "You don't give me a homosexual vibe. You do, however, seem like the type who dates Kindergarten teachers and librarians—those stable and wholesome creatures who will someday run the PTA and make your daughter dresses to match her doll's clothing."

He shook his head and grit his teeth. He had never dated anyone who taught school or ran a library. He had no idea what she was talking about regarding doll clothing, but he was certain this was some form of character assassination.

"You obviously don't know as much about me as you think," he said as he turned his head away to watch the side of the road again.

"So it wasn't a recent break up, but it is a lingering broken heart," she surmised and grinned in victory as McGee turned his head swiftly to stare at her in shock. "I'm very good at this, Agent McGee. I was, in layman's terms, a con artist. The best of us read people as clearly as the text in any book. Face it, you may as well lay your heart bare to me now, or I will pick it clean in my own way by the time we get back to Washington DC. Trust me, letting you confess to me at your own pace will make you feel less violated by the time we arrive."

McGee gnashed his teeth and said nothing for a few minutes. He wished he had not pushed back on Fornell's offer to meet with them. Then he could have hitched a ride home with the FBI. However, as the silence in the car lingered, her grin deepened. He could only imagine what sorts of questions and accusations she was going to assail him with next if he did not start talking of his own volition.

So, he relented slowly, explaining his hesitation for returning to the office. There were many reasons. The people there were busy, and he was kind of dead weight in the usefulness category at the moment. They had seen him at his most vulnerable, and he wasn't sure what they thought of him any longer—if they thought he was still up to the task of being on their team; he certainly didn't want their pity. There was a feeling of shame for not being able to help more in the investigation that landed him in the hospital. He also felt a bit rejected as no one had really tried to reach out and talk to him once he left Baltimore.

Toward the end, he briefly but grudgingly admitted there was the issue about Abby not really making any effort at all to see him when he was still in the DC area. That admission gave away more than he intended and sent Miranda on a series of questions that McGee answered as none of them were secrets. Everyone who knew him and Abby was aware of their history.

"So this woman, who you seem to still care about a great deal, is among the strongest sources of your reluctance to return to the life you knew," Miranda summarized with a thoughtful expression. "I can understand that. Relationships stemming from the heart rather than mere geography and circumstance can be very difficult and delicate sometimes."

"Some are more like glass," McGee said.

"Transparent and fragile?" Miranda remarked dryly.

"Yeah," McGee agreed. "When they break, it's best to throw them away rather than risk cutting yourself trying to put them back together. I didn't realize that until recently. I'm better reading computer code than I am reading people, but I got it figured out now."

The reformed thief smiled flatly as she looked upon him with a wisdom only gained through great pains and regret. She shook her head sadly.

"For too much of my life, I was more in love with money—having lots of it specifically—than with any person," she said. "I always felt I could love someone if the time was right, but I nearly missed my chance at that happiness because I was looking for perfection. I was a fool—a romantic fool, and I know one when I see one. You, Agent McGee, are worse off than I ever was. My problem was that I read a quote by Oscar Wilde that gave me my philosophy for not settling down for the longest time. He wrote: _Never love anyone who treats you like you are ordinary_. I thought for many years that Charles, my ex-husband, never lived up to that. I wanted something perfect, something worthy of novel, from our relationship, but people are not perfect. They are not characters in a book who say and do the right thing at the precisely right moment. They are odd and obstinate; they are also flawed—oh so very flawed. I ruined my relationship with Charles because of my foolish expectation for perfection, but then I met someone who was everything I ever dreamed of for my heart: my granddaughter. I had to wait two generations to find the person who I finally believed loved me enough and who I loved enough to leave all of my old ways behind. I will say this for you: You are much luckier than I ever was. From what you have told me, you've already met someone who you do not think is ordinary and who you love in the way you wish you were loved back."

McGee shrugged listlessly.

"Well, you're right; Abby's not ordinary," he agreed. "She's extraordinary in nearly every way I can think of. She is brilliant and caring; she's amazing and incredible; however, she doesn't feel the same way about me. I don't excite her or interest her in that way. I'm just too… me."

He made the statement without a hint of sourness or bitterness. He stated it in a factual manner, no differently than he would report on findings at a crime scene. Still, Miranda heard the pain and the resignation in his voice.

"I'm not in a position to give you informed advice as I do not know her, but I don't think a small tiff months ago over a few ill-timed questions shouldn't concern you, much less radio silence while you were recovering," Miranda said.

"It's not just that," McGee shook his head.

"You described for me what amounts to a tango around each other that you two have done for years, yet your friendship remains intact," Miranda pushed forward. "Well, I think that points you to the actual truth of the matter. A fight over you innocently asking about her absent boyfriend shouldn't sound a death knell for any future with her; what should concern you would be if she stopped fighting with you. That would mean she no longer felt you were worth of the effort. Look, it is obvious to me that you love his woman."

McGee scoffed as he stared at the long stretch of pavement as they merged onto I-81 northbound.

"How I feel about her has never been the problem—at least for me," he replied. "How I feel about her is a problem for her. She's said that she thinks of me like a brother."

"And you said?"

"I was dating someone then," he offered. "I said I thought of Abby like a sister."

"So you lied," Miranda nodded.

"I didn't lie," McGee said. "I was with Delilah. I wasn't think of Abby in anyway other than as a friend so I agreed that I felt the same way when she said she thought of me like a sibling."

"Then there is hope," Miranda grinned.

"Hope?" McGee scowled. "I don't know what kind of family you were raised in, but when someone thinks of you as a brother it doesn't mean…."

"No woman who says that means it," Miranda corrected him with a knowing chuckle. "If they don't care, they say _I think of you as just a friend_. They never say as a brother. Was she sexually abused as a child?"

"What?" McGee gaped. "No. Why would you think that?"

"Have you had sex with her?" she asked quickly. The flush on his cheeks was all the answer she needed. "Thought so. Well, unless she is some deviant who was molested as a child, no one can say they think of a former sexual partner as someone they think of as a sibling. It is simply not possible. She anointed you as a brother, I suspect, because she harbors unresolved feelings for you and throwing out a familial term was an easy way to not confront the issue. So, whatever got in the way between you w _as_ a problem, but you don't know if it still is one. You can only speak with certainty about the past. You cannot know her mind today. What is that old saying? You never know until you ask."

McGee shook his head and tried to think of some way to change the discussion. Pounding his head on the dashboard and jumping from the moving car seemed like his two most viable options but neither was appetizing.

"Why are you telling me any of this?" he groaned.

"You entertain me," she smiled. "Look, all I am saying is that as a professional investigator, you should know the danger in jumping to conclusions without seeking all the facts. I've lived a bit more in my life than you, so learn from my experience. Normally, I wouldn't betray the sisterhood of my fellow women across the world; however, you strike me as one of those rare natural gentlemen—frankly, you're someone I would have previously preyed upon and manipulated for my own needs and pleasure. But I am reformed now and feel the need to make amends for some of the wrongs I perpetrated. Here goes. This is a little secret we women do not like men to know: The ugly truth is that sometimes, when a woman runs away but never lets herself get too far, it's because deep down she wants to be chased and caught."

McGee scoffed and looked at her with bewildered and disbelieving eyes.

"I don't believe that," he shook his head. "The part where you admit to being devious and manipulative didn't help, in case you were curious."

"I wasn't," Miranda said confidently. "I was telling you the truth. Knowing that, I also feel confident in suggesting that perhaps now is not the time to give up on this woman."

McGee huffed his displeasure with the topic and decide instead to stare at the horizon with a dejected expression.

"Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting the same result," he replied. "I've had a lot of time recently to think about my life and my future. What I figured out is that there's a difference between giving up and realizing you've had enough. I'm not a quitter, but I do know how it feels when I'm through with something."

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Navy Yard—Main Gate_**

The sun was nearing peak for the afternoon as Miranda pulled her car alongside the curb some 20 feet before the guard post at the front of the base. The last 30 minutes of the drive had been quiet. To pass some of the time after she basically dissected McGee's love life in a manner that reminded him greatly of his grandmother, he had turned to the pirated laptop for something to do. What he found was not encouraging. By the time they arrived at the base, he is spirits were sinking lower still.

He climbed out of the car, not bothering to tell her the vehicle needed to be returned to DHS as it belonged (in some capacity) to them. He hadn't signed for it so he really didn't care where it ended up. That thought surprised him and convinced him that he was probably even more tired than he yet realized. He walked toward the guard post as Miranda slid back into traffic. As McGee approached his destination, he saw Gibbs waiting with the armed Marine sentries.

"Boss," McGee greeted him.

Gibbs stepped off the base and held up his hand to halt his progress.

"Hand it over," Gibbs said simply.

"I thought I was going to…," McGee said, doing as he was instructed all the same.

"Not today," Gibbs replied then signaled to someone behind him. "Go home."

"I don't have a car or a wallet," McGee said. "How am I going to…?"

His voice trailed off as a car slid to a halt beside the curb. McGee spied his sister sitting behind the wheel waving at him.

"Got you ride," Gibbs nodded at Sarah's vehicle.

"Are you trying to kill me?" McGee muttered then blinked as he looked back at his boss. "You called Sarah? Boss, she doesn't know about today, does she?"

"Yeah, McGee, because I figured since you put the video of a secret operation online that it was okay for me to read a civilian without security clearance into a classified program," Gibbs replied then lightly head slapped his agent. "I told her you needed a ride home and that she wasn't to ask any questions."

"And you believed her when she agreed?" McGee asked doubtfully.

"No, but I'm going to believe you when you tell me that you'll make sure she doesn't get any answers to her questions from you," Gibbs said then pointed to the car. "Home. Now. Ducky is calling you in an hour. You answer the phone. If you don't, he's sending an ambulance, and you're spending the night in the hospital under observation. Are we clear?"

McGee nodded as he felt his will to argue bleed away.

"I'll do as you say, but I'm fine," he offered half-heartedly. "As for the laptop, some serious encryption piggybacked on my leeching efforts. It's a unique code. It might take a while to unravel it without damaging the other files I picked up. I'm hoping I just need to create a…"

Gibbs sighed forcefully as he gripped McGee's elbow roughly and guided him to the car.

"In," he ordered. "Think about the computer tomorrow. You don't get here before 9. You leave by 1. Those orders come from the Director's Office. You break them and you're facing suspension."

McGee's shoulders drooped further as he pulled open the passenger side door upon hearing the restriction. Another, more relevant thought came to him.

"Boss?" he inquired. "My credentials?"

Gibbs reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the plastic cards with the agent's photo and entry authorization. McGee blinked looked to his supervisor for more.

"What about my badge?" he asked.

"You're not a field agent right now," Gibbs told him. "Creds get you on the base and into the buildings. The badge will be returned when you need it for field work."

"Is that cryptic way of saying I might not get it back?" he wondered as every insecurity he ever held about his place at the agency flooded back in a torrent. "If you're mad about what happened today, I understand. It wasn't the brightest idea."

"Damn right it wasn't," Gibbs in a low voice. "But it wasn't your call. Now, I'm not telling you this again. Get in the car and go home. You look like hell, McGee. You want to convince me you're ready to go back into the field, then show me you've got good judgement and can follow orders."

McGee nodded and turned back to the car. As he did, he paused one final time and looked at Gibbs. The man was already prepared to re-enter the security perimeter. With a wince at the wrath he might incur (but knowing it was necessary), McGee called to him one last time.

"Boss?" he said carefully. Gibbs turned with a menacing glare. "I don't have my apartment keys. It's with my wallet and… My landlord is on vacation so there's no one around to…"

Gibbs strode back to him at clipped pace still clutching the laptop in his hand. He offered McGee a suffering look as he took a settling breath.

"Your sister doesn't have a set?" he asked sternly.

"No," McGee scoffed and his head. "I gave her a set years ago, and she lost them so I had to get the locks changed. I don't make the same mistake twice."

Gibbs nodded, accepting that logic. His agent might be a bit protective where his sister was concerned, but at least he wasn't blind to her flaws. With the lock predicament in mind, Gibbs delved into his pocket while wondering briefly if this lesson was worthy of spawning a new rule. He pulled out his set of lock picks and handed them to his agent.

"Will these help?" Gibbs asked.

McGee grinned and nodded thankfully as he palmed the tools. Gibbs dropped his scowl and pat the back of McGee's head in reassurance.

"Get some rest, Tim," he said as he walked away.

Sarah watched the exchange without comment. She waited until her brother had on his seatbelt before she cautiously pulled into traffic. This was her new car after all.

"Will you show me how to pick a lock?" she asked with a hopeful grin.

"No," he said flatly.

"Why is it okay for you to know but not me?" she asked.

"I have legal reasons and permission when I do it," he replied. "You probably wouldn't. Whose car is this?"

"I stole it—I boost cars so your worries about me picking locks should seem minor now," she replied and received the expected heavy sigh and unamused glare she knew so well. She smiled widely at it. "You're so predictable. It's mine, Tim. I bought it on Friday."

He raised an eyebrow at that announcement as his mouth pulled taut into a thin line.

"How can you afford it?" McGee questioned. "You make nearly nothing with your part-time university job. You have student loans and rent to pay plus…"

"Tim," Sarah said loudly, cutting off the lecture as her anger flared. She then chanced a quick glance at him and felt a prickle of grateful tears behind her eyes. "It's good to see you've returned to your version of normal, although, you look a more little beat than you did when you got off the plane the other day."

"I just had a busy morning," he said simply. "No more questions about it. Gibbs orders."

He tipped his head back and tried to relax. Her car made that difficult. It was a Mini Cooper and while he had no opinions about the car itself, it did remind him of Ziva's old vehicle and the way she used to drive it: careening around corners on two wheels, using traffic lights as dares and sidewalks as parking spaces. Despite the anxiety riding with the former Mossad operative gave him, the memories made him grin unconsciously.

"Something funny?" Sarah asked.

"Just remembered I need to call Ziva sometime soon," he yawned.

"If you're tired, just fall asleep," she suggested. "With this traffic, it'll take at least 40 minutes to get to your apartment. I'll wake you when we get there. And, after that, I need to talk to you."

The shaky sound in her voice did not go unnoticed by him. It usually meant there was a confession waiting in the wings, or she was in need of something important from him. Given his life recently and her near constant contact with him since he left for Dallas, he doubted she was seeking absolution. Therefore, he suspected her serious and scared tone was the same discussion he held with his mother the night before he got on the plane back to DC.

"Sarah, if this is about my job, I'm not debating it anymore," he said as he tipped his head back and closed his eyes. "I know you've never been sold on my career or understood why I want to do this. I get that recent events confirmed for you all the things that you and Mom feared. I'm telling you precisely what I told her. I understand and appreciate for your concern for me. I know that the last few months have not been easy, but being an NCIS agent is what I want to do. What happened to me a few months ago was not normal and is highly unlikely to ever happen again. I love you, but you need to respect my choices because it is my life and what I do is a good thing. Okay?"

She huffed her acknowledgement of his little speech even though she did not agree with it. However, this time, Mr. Know It All was wrong.

"That's nice," she said simply. "Except I know a lost cause when I see one, Tim. I wasn't going to tell you that you should value your life more and get a better job—even though that's exactly what you should do. Do you see how obnoxious and annoying that is? It's what you do to me all the time—like a few minutes ago when you got all judgmental about my new car."

"Sorry," he sighed. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

Sarah chewed her lip for a moment then cleared her throat as she tried to find her courage.

"I was saying I need to talk to you seriously about… a few things and I need to ask your forgiveness," she said warily.

That caught him off guard and roused him from his dosing posture. He looked at her with weary yet worried eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked instantly. "What happened?"

Sarah smiled sadly at his instantaneous reaction. She had expected that as well. She offered him a peaceful expression but didn't bother to hide the guilt in her eyes.

"I've been kind of a bitch to a few people," she admitted.

He scoffed without surprise and rolled his eyes, earning himself a swift backhanded to his arm from her.

"Don't roll your eyes like I'm mean all the time," she scolded. "I act that way selectively to those who deserve it… usually."

"However?" he prodded expectantly.

"However," she snarled then sighed, "this time, one of the people I did it to was you, in a way. And you didn't deserve it. I'll explain it all when we get to your place. I just wanted you to know before I tell you any of it that I'm really sorry and that I'm extremely glad you're okay again."

McGee nodded then shrugged before settling back to his dozing state. He took a deep breath as he settled into the seat and closed his eyes.

"We both know that I'll forgive you for whatever you did, but just so we're clear: If you're going to start apologizing to me for every instance in which you are rude or act like miserably to anyone, I don't have enough hours in my day for that," he remarked as his mouth curled into smirk.

Sarah growled as she gripped the wheel tighter. She spied his smug amusement as she grit her teeth.

"For the record, I am biting my tongue not to say something mean to you right now—no matter how much you might deserve it," she said in snidely but fought the smile that attempted to blossom on her face at the same time.

"I'm impressed," McGee yawned. "Maybe you're finally becoming a mature adult."

"Says the guy with the collection of boxed Star Wars fig…," her voiced trailed off as she saw his head loll to the side as evidence he had fallen asleep.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Inspector General's Office_**

Tony sat in the stiff and uncomfortable chair outside the closed door of Richard Parson's Office. The setting was as unyielding and unappealing as the man he was there to visit. If anyone had told Tony that two years earlier this weasel of a man might hold the keys to the greatest puzzle he ever faced, he would have laughed them out of the Navy Yard.

However, here he was, seated outside the man's office, hoping to ask a favor.

He felt dirty doing it—and not the good kind of dirty, like women wrestling in mud or in Jell-O. That thought made him alternately intrigued and hungry. He looked at his watch to see he had been in the lobby for nearly four hours. It bothered him a bit that his cellphone remained quiet. Someone, somewhere must miss him. He checked it several times to verify that it was functioning and that he had a sufficiently strong signal. Perplexed but not yet worried, he waited.

"Mr. DiNozzo?" a woman wearing a pantsuit with her hair in a tight bun approached him. "Mr. Parsons will see you now."

"Great," Tony said and groaned as he stood upright. His back and knees ached from his protracted waiting period. "And it's Special Agent DiNozzo. Not that you need to mention that. He knows who I am, which is why he probably told you to call me Mr. DiNozzo."

He walked on stiff legs through the door at the back of the lobby into a stark white office. The walls were sparsely adorned with diplomas on one side and a book case of shiny-spined law books on the other. At the back, near the windows, was a large desk with a skinny, pasty man seated behind it.

Parsons had sprouted gray at his temples since DiNozzo last saw him—that small incident in which he and McGee had to fight to get their jobs back after taking the fall to protect Gibbs for… well, for being Gibbs (or being right but not very patient too often—depended on who was telling the story, he supposed). The special counsel looked up from his mostly clean desk and smiled. Tony cringed and reminded himself this man was an ally, or could be, this time around.

"To what do I owe this surprise?" Parsons asked.

Tony had a lot of time in the waiting room to think about what to say. He could try cajoling or convincing. He could be cagey or he could be contrite. In the end, there was only one logical approach: Be bold.

"I want your help screwing someone to the wall who got away with murder—literally," Tony said with a firm nod.

To his credit Parsons did not blink. He inhaled slowly, twisted his lips then gestured to the chair in front his desk for Tony to have a seat.

"I'm listening," he said simply.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** Stay tuned for more…


	21. Chapter 21

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _NCIS Cyber Unit_**

McGee's plans to start fresh and early on the laptop fell apart quickly. He was required to check in with his doctors. He made it through the medical tests with positive reports, but the appointment took up most of the morning. He estimated most of his allowable day would be done by the time he would arrive at the Navy Yard. A call to Vance's office resulted in a brief discussion with the man's assistant, who relayed the director's wish that McGee obey his doctors first and foremost at this time. She reported Vance wanted him to leave the laptop to Daniel Keating for the day and simply to return the next day.

McGee ended up spending the day with Sarah, finding her a nice distraction from the worries and ideas churning in his head about breaking through the encryption. Her confession the day before about keeping Abby from contacting him was surprising but nothing he could not forgive. She did the wrong thing for the right reasons. Abby, he knew, was capable enough that if she had a dire reason to speak to him would have managed it without difficulty. In fact, out of boredom, he had done some cleansing of his various online accounts and traced some snooping activity back to an IP address behind the NCIS firewall that could only have been her. She had apparently checked on him in her own distant way without needing actual contact.

He spent a restless night at his apartment partly due to the sudden heatwave that hit the Metro area—temperatures soared into the high 90's and thickened the air with nearly the same percentage of humidity. McGee thought he should be used to that as he had been in Dallas for weeks with near 100 degree temperatures. However, his mother's home was air conditioned. His apartment was not. He ended up sitting beside the small windows in the wee hours of the morning texting with Holly as she had herself in magical jam yet again. When he woke the air was still hot and thick, as if the sun had never set. He walked to the Metro station and felt wilted 30 minutes later when he arrived at the stop on the Green Line for the Navy Yard.

Making things worse for the day was being paired with Dan Keating, the former temporary field agent who once took McGee's place on Gibbs' team. The man was certainly a capable programmer, but he was (in McGee's opinion) without any keyboard creativity. He could only think linearly and seemed more afraid of the clock—specifically McGee being on the base one minute longer than Gibbs would allow. It was only after McGee noted the man seemed to deflate further after making a run for iced coffee that he got the feeling Keating was troubled by more than the Gibbs' edict and the encryption that had them stumped. McGee made the mistake of asking what was wrong and the work session turned into a cry for help on the relationship front as Keating bemoaned (and rambled) about his unrequited feelings for a woman in Human Resources.

"It's eating me alive," Keating said. "It's like I'm starving to death for affection from her."

"And mixing your metaphors," McGee pointed out dryly.

"I'm serious," Keating whined. "I don't exactly have the most robust history as far as girlfriends go. This one, Allison, she's different. At least, I think so, but I'm just like every other guy that works here to her… or less. I mean, she likes me as a friend—she said so, but I don't know if she meant it like she as saying we're _just_ friends. I don't know what to do."

McGee shrugged. He was given a lesson in the kiss of death that phrase could be recently and felt for Keating. He knew precisely how it felt to be in limbo and to be out of hope and luck. He'd been there before himself. The programmer sighed heavily as he continued to pour out his sorrows to the agent.

"I was thinking I should get back to a field unit," Keating said eagerly. "That might make me seem more interesting to her."

McGee blinked in disbelief then shook his head. Of all the attractions being a field agent held, he had never considered using it as a ploy to meet women. In fact, most of the women he knew considered it a point of worry and therefore unappealing.

"Did you even like field work?" McGee asked with a scrunched expression of doubt.

He did not recall Keating being too enthusiastic when he was moved out of the cyber basement to replace McGee when the field agent was sent to the computer cavern to work on a secret project for the director. He also did not recall hearing from anyone that Keating was a good fit for the field. Certainly Gibbs was never impressed by the man. McGee would be the first to defend an academic's right to try his or her hand at the hands-on/practical side of law enforcement, but there was a hard truth to accept with that: Not everyone was cut out for the job.

"No, but being someone who carries a gun and a badge would make me stand out," Keating announced. "It's more impressive."

McGee shook his head pityingly.

"I'm no expert on impressing women, but trust me, that's the wrong reason to leave your desk job," McGee offered. "Dan, take it from me. If you were in a room full of women who would only be impressed by a gun and a badge, then you may as well be standing there all alone. If you could manage to convince them you were that kind of guy, it would be a lie. I think a woman like that would probably be too dimwitted to interest you for long. Don't waste your time on anyone who wants you to be someone you're not."

Keating scoffed as his voice took on a disgruntled whine.

"That's easy for you to say," he grouched. "You're different. Sure, you fit in down here with the rest of us geeks usually—you know, when we let you come in—but you also fit in up in the squad room. You can function in both worlds."

McGee held his tongue rather than say it took years for him to feel that way—and it wasn't even a constant. Functioning and fitting didn't always meet on the same day. There were still times he questioned whether he belonged in either place, he thought as he watched the screen show him he was denied access to the hard drive yet again.

His frustration was growing, partly because of Keating's yammering, partly because he was feeling tired after a sleepless night, and partly because the A/C was barely working so the room was nearing 85 degrees—not good for sensitive electronics. Considering the heat in the underground, climate regulated room, he could only imagine how insufferable it was outside. He had thoughts of the surface of the sun on his mind as Keating continued his wallowing.

"People confuse me," Keating said. "Computers, I get. I write code, and it does what I tell it. People are illogical and messy, but this girl, this woman… she's different. To me, she is anyway."

"So tell her," McGee advised shortly. "If she really is the person you think she is, then something might come out of telling her that."

"Or?" Keating prompted. "I might get my heart and my entire sense of self crushed under her heel!"

"It's a risk," McGee shrugged. "At least you'll know the truth. Heartbreak hurts, but peace of mind is not a bad thing to have in the end. It's the eternal wondering that does the most damage and lingers the longest."

Keating turned the statements over in his mind for a few moments as he considered them. He focused his sharp eyes to his co-worker.

"So if it all blows up I can hold my head up after that?" Keating asked in a worried but oddly hopeful voice. "I mean, what if I truly do love her but she rejects me? How will I get over that?"

McGee sighed as that answer eluded him. He wasn't entirely sure someone could get over that kind of rejection. The trick was figuring out if your own feelings were fueled by love, lust, or just loneliness. The last two could be recovered from; the first one, however…

"Feelings like that just kind of course through your veins," McGee said. "I don't know how to get rid of them. It hurts when you find out your feelings aren't reciprocated and never will be. That's a deep cut, and I don't know that it ever fully heals, but you can move on and try again. There might be someone else out there after all."

"Great, so it could turn out that Cupid saw me, put an arrow through my heart but it was misfire thus all my pining has been in vain," Keating moaned. "Finding that out might just kill me."

McGee chuckled as the stuffiness of the room made him feel punchy.

"Hey, I got a bullet to the heart and mine kept on beating," McGee shrugged with a wry smile that acknowledged the macabre sentiment. "So, take it from me. Cupid's arrow won't prove fatal. If it's truly love, it might turn out okay in the end."

Keating nodded, feeling foolish for his moaning to someone who had nearly died of a real wound just the previous season.

"I think I'm better off biding my time," Keating hedged.

"There's never going to be the perfect time," McGee said. "You're not guaranteed any tomorrows, and neither is she. If you're going to feel regret, it's better if it's for something you did that failed than for something you never tried. Don't be the guy who spends the rest of his life wondering _what if_. Take the chance. You have nothing with her now except some daydreams. That means you've got nothing to lose. Go talk to her. Be honest and maybe you'll make some real memories rather than just imagined ones."

Keating huffed and scrunched his face into a pout.

"If I do that and she laughs in my face or runs away screaming that she's not interested, I'll just lick my wounds and move on," Keating said with a mixture of dread and hope.

McGee considered telling him it wasn't that simple, but he figured the man's flagging confidence probably wouldn't take another dose of that sort of truth well. Instead, McGee just shrugged solemnly as he thought of his decade-long confusion regarding Abby. Thinking of it, part of him was tempted to tell Keating that if what he felt really was love, it wouldn't die that easily. He considered telling him what it would feel like to be that fool who saw her every day, for years, hoping deep down that she might change her mind.

But Keating wasn't ready to hear that. McGee doubted anyone ever was.

"Any man can survive a broken heart, right?" Keating remarked with a shaky and deluded grin.

"Me and my many scars are walking and talking proof," McGee said with a half-smile.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

The noon hour came and went. The mercury soared into the triple digits outside. There wasn't even a slight breeze wafting off the port. A stagnant smell, like freshly opened bilge tanks, hung on the air. MGee felt a tightness in his chest as he began to dread the crowded Metro ride home. The train would be less packed at this hour, but there would still be plenty of sweaty and cranky travelers. With that in mind, he decided there was no harm in checking whether his possession had been returned by the taskforce.

McGee thought he timed his arrival properly. He would get to the squad room with 20 minutes to spare before his departure deadline. That was the plan anyway. He didn't count on running into the women who ran Human Resources and two of the guys from the armory outside the building returning from late lunches. Their greetings and well-wishes took up more time than he had to spare. It would have been wiser to just leave, but he wanted his keys and his wallet back. He figured Gibbs would understand the slight bending of his schedule.

McGee entered in the brilliant orange room and felt a sensation of coming home wash through him. It had been nearly four months since he has stepped foot in this place and he took comfort in seeing it unchanged. Granted, it hadn't changed much since he first saw it years earlier, but that was sort of the point. It was consistent.

What was also consistent was finding Tony, seated at his desk, with a sweating cup at hand launching spitballs at Bishop's empty desk. McGee smiled as he approached.

"Still keeping your skills sharp in case they make that an Olympic sport?" McGee asked.

Tony's head snapped up upon hearing his voice and a surprised but pleased grin erupted on his face. He held himself at his desk, maintaining his composure and dignity, by not breaking the guy code and rushing to embrace his long-absent sidekick.

"Someone here needs to bring home the gold," Tony said jovially. "Nice of you to show up and all, but you do realize that your work day started like five hours ago, don't you?"

"I've been in the cyber basement working," McGee answered cautiously. "I was told you knew."

"Yeah," Tony nodded quickly. "I also know you're only allowed four hours before you've got to go. It's past that. If Gibbs finds you here…."

McGee scoffed and looked at their leader's empty desk. Considering the hour and the intense heat, the man was likely on a coffee run.

"I'm here to see Boss," McGee said. "Did he mention if he got my stuff back from Fornell yet?"

"No, but since you're here, tell me how to find out who these people are," Tony said as he gestured to his computer screen.

Sure, he could start the search himself, but it seemed so wrong to tap into his limited geek skills when there was a perfectly good Elf Lord standing in front of him. Also, the urge to order McGee around was strong; it had been too long since the natural order of things had existed in the squad room after all.

McGee hesitated. He didn't get so much as a hi or how are you. No. He got treated like a probie. Part of him was glad to be useful, but part of him was smarting a bit from Tony's failure to even send him a text message while he was in Dallas. Sure, the guy was no doubt busy, but since when did that stop him from finding time to play with his phone or do non-work things? He had come to see McGee in the hospital. Then again, McGee reminded himself, the last time they spoke was the official interview for the investigation—the one in which McGee felt he demonstrated total uselessness. Tony might have told him he had acted correctly in Afghanistan, but McGee figured it was just as likely that was an interview technique: build trust and flatter to get more information. Tony was a master of that.

The senior agent sensed a cold reaction from his partner that made him question if his all "nothing new here" approach to greeting him had been wrong. Tony was glad to see McGee walking and talking as if the last three months never happened. Working without him had been awkward and Tony didn't feel like he'd ever gotten his true balance in the younger agent's absence. Sure, the team solved a few cases and he made some headway on the cold case, but there was something missing.

But telling McGee that would seem flat and contrived now that the moment to do so had passed. The only course was to plow onward. He jumped directly into the task at hand.

"We're helping out an agent based in southern Europe at the moment," he explained while pointing at his computer. "A little hanky-panky turned deadly for two sailors. The leading theory is that someone in this chatroom is our suspect. Do the things you do with the typing to tell me more about these people."

"Run down their IP addresses and link them back to user accounts?" McGee asked flatly, thinking this was something Tony should know. "Who do you think they are?"

"My theory is female assassins," Tony waggled is eyebrows suggestively as McGee stepped behind his desk and peered at the screen. He elbowed Tony out of the way and began to type. Despite his displeased reaction, McGee was actually excited to assist.

"You don't know they're all women," McGee pointed out, but Tony offered him a look that said he was as sure as he needed to be at that moment. "Fine. You've got Crawcolady. From the static IP, that one might be tied to Chechnya. Marthapreston4? I read something earlier in a bulletin about that name. It's possible it belongs to a former MI6 operative gone rogue named Gwendolyn Gracfully. This one, Hostaqueen, could be worth looking at; I recall that Mossad has had feelers out for someone going by that handle last year. They weren't even sure who it might, but I've got a guess who might. This one: Althea781. That user appears to have a ghosted origin code, but it seems to actually come from Tel Aviv. It's just a guess, but I'm thinking that is actually someone in Mossad. Malachi would know."

He was about to suggest Tony reach out to their former teammate for her access to Mossad connections, but it appeared his partner was focused on other things still.

"Hey, look at this one: Earthdragon," Tony pointed at the screen. "Sounds like an eco-terrorist to me. Here's one for you, Tim: GeeksGirl. I'm going to rename her McGeeksGirl, just for you. And Momcat? I'm thinking housewife gone darkside. Hey, is that one you, SmartKid37?"

"Tony," McGee sighed, "a screen name isn't a tailored code name. It's a…"

"Ooo," the senior agent interrupted as he grinned widely. "Leggylover3. Sounds like a Bond villain. Think we can get any pictures of these ladies or…?"

McGee scoffed and left Tony to his imagination. Instead, he started toward his own desk until Tony grabbed his arm and restated McGee's restricted work schedule. McGee was prepared to argue when his teammate sudden stepped back and recoiled into his seat. McGee sensed a presence behind him. He swallowed as he turned slowly to find Gibbs toe-to-toe with him.

"Hi, Boss," McGee said in an uncertain voice.

Gibbs acted as if he did not hear the greeting. Although he kept his eyes focused on McGee, he addressed Tony with his question.

"DiNozzo, have I suffered a stroke or a concussion today?" Gibbs asked holding a coffee cup tightly in his hand.

"Not that I witnessed, Boss," Tony answered warily. "Is there a reason I should worry that happened?"

"Well, yeah," he replied. "Because those would be the most likely reasons I'm hallucinating that McGee is standing at your desk when he is under orders from me not to be in this room."

"Boss, I can explain," McGee began but was ignored.

"So which is it, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked, fixing McGee with an icy stare that lowered the temperature of the room and made the younger agent cast his eyes to the floor in submission. "It must be one or the other because the actual McGee wouldn't be dumb enough to come here against my orders."

"Well, Boss," Tony replied with an ' _I told you_ ' glare at McGee, "it could be that your health is fine, and it's McGee who's having a little mental issue and wasn't thinking clearly when he arrived. In his defense, he's been a little under the weather recently. Maybe he's not as sharp as he used make us think he was. It is possible that your crystal clear and simple instructions are beyond his comprehension."

McGee's jaw tensed as he scowled out Tony's lack of support.

"Kind of like when Tony was infected with _y pestis_ ," McGee offered. "He likes bragging that he came back a week early even though you gave him the time off."

Tony scoffed as he stood up and puffed out his chest.

"It's not bragging when it's a fact, McSickLeave," he said as he resisted the urge to tap the back of McGee's head.

What stopped him mostly was the stony look on Gibb's face as he continued to stare at McGee.

"Right you are, Boss," Tony nodded then whispered loudly. "Better leave now, Hallucination Probie. The boss doesn't need figments of his imagination trying to debate with him before he's had his second gallon of coffee for the day."

McGee scoffed and approached Gibbs' desk. He waited two solid minutes before the man turned his head in his direction.

"Boss, I'm not really disobeying you," he pleaded. "I got tied up seeing people on my way in; I only came to the squad room to see if the taskforce returned my wallet and keys. Plus, I figured while I was here, I would try and run one more diagnostic on the mirrored hard drive image we have in the cyber unit. My system up here has a few… customized tools they don't have."

"Ah, special tools," Tony mused as he grinned dully as pecked on his keyboard happily. "Kinky, McFreak. That kind of stuff is going to get you in trouble someday. Just a friendly warning there, McApparition."

McGee rolled his eyes at the comment and shirked as he spun to gape at his teammate.

"Okay, that's three names in less than a minute," McGee observed testily.

Tony stood at his desk panting as though exhausted or fighting off some inner way of pressure.

"It's been a while so I'm supersaturated," Tony confessed as he leaned forward dramatically and gripped his desk for support. "They're pent up and spilling over the edge. Better leave before the levee breaks."

McGee scoffed then turned away and continued undaunted to plead his case to Gibbs.

"Boss, this won't take long and it could be important if the bot agent I created and installed this morning doesn't work," McGee said. "I know I'm on restricted hours, but this is just typing and reading. I don't need a babysitter for that; frankly, I've had enough babysitting in the last few months."

"Months?" Tony scoffed. "Try decade."

McGee glared over his shoulder at Tony who continued smirked and muttered the word: _McChild_. McGee glared back furiously.

"Oh, the pressure," Tony gasped breathing heavily as he put a hand on his stomach. "I feel it building. I could blow like Vesuvius, Boss."

Gibbs continued to stare forward at his agent who was in violation of his orders. McGee withered under his gaze.

"I have a conference in MTAC with Dunham from Lisbon in two minutes," Gibbs said plainly to no one in particular. "You got those chat room names yet, DiNozzo?"

"Lisbon, eh?" Tony chimed in eagerly. "I love Lisbon. The Liz-bonese… Liz-bonian women."

"You're a moron, you know that, right?" McGee offered snidely.

"Lisbonian shark women and their exploding wigs of death," Tony crowed as he put his index fingers to his temples. "That's a modified line from a movie with Muppets. Not sure why I said it, but like I said, things are churning in there today. Uh, chat room. Yes, Boss. Got 'em. Leading contender is someone the Mossad is interested in."

"Gee, how'd you figure that out, Tony?" McGee asked flatly.

"Why don't you get in your sad, little hybrid car and drive home like a good little boy, McBitter," Tony spat triumphantly.

Gibbs chose that moment to acknowledge his junior agent again.

"Did you drive here, McGee?" he asked pointedly. "Are you cleared to drive?"

"Hallucinations can't drive, Boss," Tony offered then ducked behind his partner to avoid Gibbs' stony eyes.

"I am cleared, but I didn't," McGee said obstinately again. "Boss, I just wanted to see if my wallet and keys were returned. I was also going to take a quick a peek at my computer, but now I won't. See, I haven't even turned it on yet."

Tony chuckled at his desk and earned questioning looks from the two of them. He looked at the pair with a pleased grin and shrugged.

"I was just going to say Hallucination Probie is so unappealing he can't even turn a computer on," Tony shrugged again as neither even reacted to the comment. "Sorry. It sounded funnier in my head."

"That should probably be in your eulogy someday," McGee grumbled quietly then recoiled as Gibbs returned his flat gaze to him.

Chastised soundly, he hung his head as Gibbs' phone rang. The supervisory agent answered it and grunted a few words to Tony about Dunham being online in MTAC. He rose from his desk and starting toward the stairs while snapping his fingers at Tony to join him.

Tony started to follow then back tracked to his desk. Once there, he pulled a thumb drive out of his computer and handed it to McGee.

"Hey, bring this down to Abby, would ya?" Tony half-asked, half-ordered. "She told me to get it to her a couple days ago, but I forgot."

"You're afraid she'll be mad at you," McGee guessed.

Tony shook his head confidently as a firm grin cemented itself on his face.

"No," he shook his head assuredly as he clapped McGee lightly but bracingly on both shoulders while grinning widely. "I know she'll be mad, but she can't be mad at a hallucination. Actually, seeing as it's you, she probably can, but better you than me."

"Tony, Gibbs was mad that I was just standing in the room," McGee said. "How's he going to react if he finds out that I was forced to make a trip on your behalf to the lab to play delivery boy?"

Tony's grin grew wider and his eyebrows waggled comically.

"Playing delivery boy?" he repeated with a salacious expression. "Sounds like you've been watching porn while you're convalescing. Hey, if you think a little role playing will help you get anywhere with the Mistress of the Lab, go for it. Just be prepared for your typical rejection. Oh, and there's no reason to tell Gibbs about this favor."

McGee clenched his jaw and scowled. Tony nodded then vigorously ruffled his fingers through McGee's hair while grinning manically.

"Good to see you, Tim," he said as he made for the stairs. "I'd stay to chat, but I have to go ask Chad Dunham _¿cómo es España_." McGee scoffed and shook his head as he offered Tony some corrected information.

"Lisbon's in Portugal, not Spain, Tony," McGee said. "The locals speak Portuguese not Spanish, and Chad doesn't speak either language. Besides, half of the time what you say Spanish doesn't mean what you think it does."

"Yes, it does," Tony insisted over the railing. "I _habla_ just fine."

"When Bill Foster with the Embassy conferenced with us from Barcelona two years ago, you told him _disfruta España_ ," McGee noted.

Tony beamed eagerly as he bobbed his head in admission of the memory and the statement.

"Yeah," he said. "It means enjoy Spain."

"Actually, it doesn't," McGee corrected him. "Ziva told me it has more of a connotation about taking advantage of the country."

"Whatever, McRosettaStone," Tony continued up the stairs toward the locked room. "It's past your nap time, and you're getting grouchy. I'll catch up with you soon. Take it easy; it's hot out there today."

Shaking his head and grinding his teeth, McGee clutched the thumb drive in his fist and made his way to the back elevator. At the last minute, he changed his mind and opted for the stairs. It was only a few flights and he had been doing a lot of physical therapy. He figured he was up for a couple flights.

By the time he reached the lab, he knew he was wrong. His plunge back into work with the taskforce, the air temperature of 104, and the fact that he had missed lunch left him feeling shaky as his head began to swim. He scolded himself for his stupidity as he noted it was quiet in the lab. That was usually a good sign that Abby was not there.

McGee was torn about that.

Part of him was glad. He was okay with her lack of contact while he was in Dallas. McGee was not pleased with his sister's interference in that; she had acted rashly—something that was a bit of a trademark for her. McGee didn't have to like it to be used to it. Still, he had spent a lot of time thinking while he was gone and was actually oddly grateful Abby hadn't been in contact with him. It helped him make his decision about once and for all putting her in the past.

As for Sarah's contention that Abby was genuinely concerned for him, McGee figured it was more likely that Abby was developing a fear based complex following his injury. She always worried about her friends. McGee worried she would have a hard time letting go of her anxiety even now that he was recovered. He did not want a friendship based on fear or a sense of guilt.

In fact, he was sad to admit he wasn't sure they could have a friendship at all any longer.

Working together was fine. He could easily function with her in their respective work roles—they had done so successfully for a long time. It was the other stuff, the out of the office interactions that kept his head and heart from fully moving on. Abby made her feelings, or rather her lack of them, clear to him on several occasions. He was a glutton for punishment for certain, but that did not make him deluded or dumb. Abby was happy with Burt now, and McGee was happy for her—or so he kept telling himself.

Still, the silence of the vacant lab also disappointed him. Normally, after any absence from the office, McGee would tell her when he returned. He had avoided doing so before now simply out of a lack of time.

So, with muddle thoughts, he made it cautiously to her desk. He sat down out of necessity, needing a brief rest. He pulled a sheet of paper from her printer and grabbed a pen from a drawer. As he was drafting a few quick sentences, to explain the return of Tony's thumb drive, and missed the approaching footsteps until she was nearly on top of him.

"McGee!" Abby shouted joyfully as she appeared in the doorway.

He jumped slightly at her greeting, clasping his hand to his chest as he gasped in surprise. He was still experiencing a few minor, mildly post trauma symptoms. Increased startle response was one of them, exacerbated by the recent snafu with the unexpected helicopter during this work with the taskforce. He knew that reaction would dull with time. He just wasn't prepared for his heart to begin hammering so unexpectedly while sitting in quiet lab, particularly after the organ had just begun to calm down following his idiotic trip down the roasting stairway.

Seeing his sudden flare of distress, Abby halted her launch for hugging and instead hurried to his side and knelt beside the chair.

"Oh my god," she yelped as she put her fingers leaped instinctively to his jugular and began taking his pulse. "Are you okay?"

He nodded quickly and brushed her hand away as he forced himself to take a slow, controlled breath (while praying he didn't choke on it or cough from it—those events never left him feeling great afterward).

"I didn't mean to startle you," she apologized as she cupped his cheek. "Are you in pain? Do you need some water? Let me get you some."

He opened his mouth to object, but she was gone before he could form a word. Abby returned with a mug filled with chilled water that she held to his lips. He tried pushing it away, but she returned it instantly and insisted he take a sip. He did so under protest that he offered her a displeased eye roll.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. "Don't get me wrong. It's so good to see you, but if Gibbs finds you here in the office he'll…"

"Gibbs knows I'm here," he said as he caught his breath. "I mean, he knows I'm in the building. Tony asked me to drop off a thumb drive—you should feel free to lecture him about that. I was just leaving you a note."

"Ooo, a note," she smiled eagerly with the hints of a naughty grin. "A note about what?"

"Uh, about me leaving the thumb drive," McGee said awkwardly, pushing himself slowly and carefully to a standing position.

The world spun around a bit, but he was used to the occasional light-headedness. Abby did not seem to notice as he edged away and started to depart. She looped her arm through his as she walked with him toward the door. As reluctant as he was to receive it, her support was helpful in keeping his balance while his equilibrium set itself right again.

"That's sweet of you," Abby said oblivious to his internal disorientation. "Usually people just drop these babies on my desk when I'm not here so I have to research who they belong to and why they are here. So, thanks for being considerate—not that you aren't normally, because you are. I never thank you for that, do I? I should. So, I am: Thank you. Wow, I'm rambling. Sorry. I'm just surprised to see you. I can't believe you're here. I didn't know you were coming in today. It's really good to see you here… and just to see you. Does feel good to be back?"

"I guess," he shrugged.

"It's really good to see you," she said the hugged him abruptly but it was not the bone crushing squeeze he expected.

It was an exuberant embrace for certain but it was controlled, which seemed un-Abby-like if she was being honest about her joy and surprise. He suspected the reason was fear. She saw him as fragile and was afraid he might break if she squeezed too hard. As he determined to show her that concern was not needed, his head let him know it was not onboard with the plan.

"So, can you hang out a while, or do you need to be somewhere?" she said as she released him. "We need to catch up and I really want to talk to you… about… stuff. So, can you stay?"

She looked at him hopefully, wanting to hear one answer more than another, but there was something a little off with his eyes and his coloring. He looked shaky despite standing beside her and walking toward the door. As she stepped back from him, the loss of contact, the support he wasn't aware he need so desperately until the moment it vanished, made his knees feel like jelly. He leaned back quickly, bracing himself on the refrigerator behind him to remain standing. Abby saw him falter and swiftly slid her shoulder quickly under his as she wrapped her arm around his waist to steady him.

"McGee," she gasped. "Okay, you need to sit again then I'm calling Ducky."

"No, I'm fine," he shook his head and regretted. He gripped her for support and forced himself to take a slow, deep breath as he found his balance again. "It's no big deal. I just got up too quickly after… walking down too many stairs."

"You took the stairs?" she gaped. "Are you allowed to do that yet? What were you thinking? Why would you do that?"

"Uh, because they were there," he offered with a dry chuckle that found no favor in her dark and narrowed gaze. "Abby, I'm okay, really. A couple flights of stairs is not Mt. Everest. I just had a bit of head rush, which is perfectly normal. My doctor says they are nothing to worry about; I saw her yesterday and got a clean bill of health. There's no need to call Ducky. I'll take the elevator when I go back upstairs. Promise."

Her cheek pinched tightly in a disbelieving scowl as she walked him slowly toward the door. She grabbed her bag off the side table as she did so.

"No, you need to go home right now," she asserted. "You need to rest."

"I'm fine," McGee sighed. "Half the reason I feel this way is because I spent too much time in bed for the last few months. Look, it's just been a crazy week. Plus, it's over 100 degrees today."

"You were just lightheaded," she said. "You shouldn't drive."

"I didn't drive," he agreed. "I took the Metro today."

Abby shook her head, finding that a bad idea as well. She said nothing as she slowly marched him to the evidence garage entrance then made him sit there while she brought her car around the building. He waited uselessly while suffering through the stares and giggles of the evidence technicians who watched with keen interest. McGee did not recognize most of them and figured they were the latest class of probationary agents on their mandatory rotation to the Navy Yard station to schlep evidence from the van to the lock up until it was needed for trial or analysis. As he did not recognize them, they surely had no idea who he was. That boded well for him. It meant there was a chance Gibbs would not find out he nearly fainted and had to be dragged home.

Then again, McGee sighed as Abby arrived in her car, she was bound to tell on him. She wore a worried face as she walked him to the passenger seat and, without saying a word, waited from him to buckle his seatbelt. The only thing that brought a glint of light to the situation for McGee was the knowledge that at some point she was going to remember it was Tony who made him bring that flash drive down to her. That made the senior agent somewhat complicit in the visit to the lab debacle. Surely, she would have a few choices words and glares for him at some point.

Of course, McGee reminded himself, that didn't change the fact that he was going to spend half an hour in a car with alone Abby when what he really thought he needed was to be far from her or at least not alone with her.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Autopsy Suite_**

Bishop stepped into the sterile room with her report in hand. Gibbs was asking Ducky to review the autopsy results from the dead sailors in Lisbon just to ensure the findings were accurate. She kept her opinion to herself on this one. She suspected the only reason a team out of DC was being asked to look into a case in Portugal was political. One of the dead seamen was the nephew of a congressman on the House Armed Services Committee.

"Here you go, Ducky," she said. "Gibbs said he'll check in with you later. I'm guessing this isn't precisely a rush job."

"Thank you, Eleanor, and no it is not," he replied. "My review is merely precautionary. The medical examiner in Lisbon is Dr. Freeman—a talented and hyper-vigilant man who has my full confidence. Now, I have an inquiry for you. Did I hear correctly that Timothy is in the building?"

"I heard he was," she answered. "I didn't see him. Tony said he stopped by and Gibbs told him to leave. According to Tony, McGee seemed… uncomfortable and a little distant. I'm a little worried. After what he went through, maybe being back is unsettling to him."

Ducky contemplated that then shook his head. Everything he knew about the agent and his recovery told him precisely the opposite. What was likely the cause of any odd vibes McGee was sending out was more likely something much older, personal and (given his nature) predictable.

"I suspect he is feeling awkward because of his long absence," Ducky offered. "Timothy has strong sense of purpose and understands his value to your team; however, he has been through a protracted period of radio silence from all of you. I suspect he felt dismissed or worse, forgotten. I told Jethro that keeping him isolated was no doubt best from a strictly physical medicine perspective, but there is more to recovering from an injury such as the one Timothy suffered than letting stitches heal. The mental wound can be as devastating as the bullet's path."

Bishop nodded. That was the reason she did not follow absolutely Gibbs' edict to leave McGee alone during his convalescence. She made it a point to text him—nothing of vital importance, but just small messages to let him know he was missed and still needed.

"I guess we'll have to wait to see him the next time he's here," Bishop said. "Maybe we should do something to welcome him. If he felt left out or discarded, should we make a big deal of his official return?"

Ducky shook his head having already discussed this with Tony.

"No, that might make it worse by emphasizing the period he was gone," Ducky predicted. "Timothy doesn't seek adulation from crowds. When he was a best-selling author, he chose to use a pen name and hide in anonymity from his fans. I suspect he would feel the gap in his life before the shooting and the aftermath more acutely if there was a grandiose reception to announce his return. I suggest we approach our initial interactions with honesty. We should tell him we are pleased by his return and that we worried greatly about him so we are gratified that he is well again. Being told sentiments to that effect in private moments will mean a great deal to him and do the most good. Over the top displays are neither what he craves nor what he needs."

"Any chance you told Abby any of this?" Bishop asked warily.

"Abigail?" Ducky repeated then shook his head. "No. Why?"

"Well, she's friends with McGee and tends toward the… aggressive side of friendly when she's been worried," Bishop stated. "I heard from one of the evidence techs that she left in her car a little while ago. McGee was with her. I'm guessing she was bringing him home."

"Oh dear," Ducky sighed. "Well, he survived an attack in Afghanistan. He should be able to withstand a little smothering from Abigail. Still, it might be wise for someone to call him later to see if he has been able to free himself from her worry-saturated hug."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	22. Chapter 22

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _McGee's Apartment_**

Abby's worried expression lasted most of the silent 30 minute drive from the Navy Yard to McGee's apartment in Silver Spring. By the time she unlocked his apartment door (doing it quicker with the lock picks than he could at that moment), she was back to giving him sympathetic half smiles coupled with concerned sighs. True to her word, she walked him from the door straight to his bedroom.

"Abby, I don't need to be in bed," he said, finally speaking.

"Your face is flushed, and you're shaky on your feet," she asserted as she stroked his cheek and checked for signs of fever. "You need hydration and rest."

To emphasize that treatment, she walked to the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of water from the refrigerator and handed it to him. McGee tossed it onto his bed.

"Thank you, but I'm fine," he said, feeling his strength return after the car ride. He tried to step past her but was blocked.

"I know you want to show everyone that you're completely healed, but obviously you're not," Abby said latching his hand and squeezing it reassuringly. "Not yet. You will be, but you need to take your time and take it easy. Just lay down for a little while."

He became acutely aware of how close she stood to him. The scent of her shampoo seemed to fill the room. He could feel the heat of her body practically pressing against his. Her hand holding his was firm and hot. She looked at him with pleading eyes.

"No," McGee shook his head. "I won't be treated like an invalid anymore."

"Well, you're acting more like a child than an invalid so maybe I should just ground or put you in timeout," she said firmly.

An initial observation might term her look and tone as fiery and aggressive, but closer inspection revealed it to be something more frantic and scared: abject worry.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"People who care about you also worry about you," she said solemnly. "We want you to get better. That means resting when you get lightheaded, not taking the stairs when it's 104 degrees, and not agreeing to play secret agent on asinine sting operations without asking Gibbs' permission first."

He blinked then swallowed.

"You know about that?" McGee asked and from her pleading expression he got his answer.

He looked away from her. He felt like a child, like he did when his father used to lecture or dismiss him for doing something wrong. The muscles in his jaw bunched as he clenched his teeth. Abby sighed softly and shook her head.

"No, don't do that," Abby said, lightening her tone as she tilted her head to look into his averted eyes. "McGee, I'm not mad; I'm worried. I care what happens to you."

Her voice cracked as she spoke and her eyes grew glassy. She held his hand tighter. He turned his gaze slowly and reluctantly to meet her eyes as she continued here explanation.

"I need you to be okay," she said in a thin voice that heralded tears were not far behind. "I can't lose you. When you were hurt and nearly…. I don't know what I would do if…"

He was startled by the statement. Not so long ago, when they fear Gibbs' team was being targeted by the Port-to-Port killer, McGee said something similar to her and had been rebuffed. A momentary childish urge popped into his mind that he should do the same in return, but seeing her look so sincere and vulnerable obliterated his resolve. Before he could respond in anyway, she dropped his hand and hugged him. She rested her head on his shoulder as a single tear raced down her face and dripped onto his shirt.

As she held him, McGee ached inside. He was at a loss for further direction in the conversation when his cellphone rang. Absentmindedly, he reached in his pocket for it and saw Keating's number in the caller ID. With a groan of anticipated failure, he answered as Abby continued to cling to him causing a lump to rise in his throat.

"What is it, Dan?" McGee asked as he scrunched his face in advance of receiving a report of another defeat in breaking the encryption.

"Uh, you wanted to know if the…," Keating began in a scattered sounding voice.

"It's still blocked, right?" McGee said in weary and defeated voice as his mind scrambled to keep the two worlds separate: Abby snugly pressed against him to give and/or receive comfort; Keating quaking on the phone while apparently reporting another dead end.

As if sensing the magnitude of the call, Abby disentangled herself from him and waited quietly by his side. She wore a pensive but patient expression as she dabbed the remaining tears from her eyes. The sight of that made McGee swallow hard and further scrambled his already chaotic thoughts.

"Um, no," Keating's voice trembled. "I'm calling to tell you it worked. Your bot agent fooled the security protocol this time. You're in!"

"I'm in?" McGee repeated as his chin dropped.

"You're in," Keating confirmed. "The laptop is accessible; I can see the directories for the entire OS. There are four root directories and one partition, which appears to be the manufacturer's pre-installed package."

McGee's mind was cheering. His rather linear and not-likely-to-work approach had in fact done the opposite and sheered a hole in the security perimeter encasing the files. He felt a lightheaded and tingling sensation-a mental rather than physical one-that was both a little disorienting and a bit titillating.

"What are you doing with it now?" McGee asked urgently.

"Nothing," Keating crowed triumphantly. "I called Director Vance and told him you got in. He said to lock it up until tomorrow when you're back to work with me on it. Oh, and on that other thing. I just wanted to say thanks. I… went out for break 20 minutes ago, and I saw Allison at the food cart. I asked her if she wanted to have dinner with me Saturday."

"You did?" McGee asked distantly. In his peripheral vision, as he caught Abby grinning, causing another lump to form in his throat.

"Yeah, and she said no," Keating replied cheerfully. "I mean, that was a downer, but she said she had to say no because she has to go to her cousin's wedding. She said maybe we could do it some other time."

"Okay, that's… great," McGee blinked, only half listening. "Uh, we'll… start work on the files tomorrow."

He hung up and blinked furiously as a ringing sensation in his ears let him know his heart rate was spiking, but for good reasons. He had cracked the code. He had the keys to the kingdom. He was in! He might not be able to make it through an undercover operation without being sick; he might be banished from his normal office space; he might even have discovered stairs were his Kryptonite, but he still had his hacking skills. Not all was lost.

"What is it?" Abby asked as his expression teetered between frazzled and ecstatic.

"I got in," he told her mesmerized by the news. "It worked, my program did. It cracked the encryption."

"Way to go, McGee!" she cheered and squeezed him triumphantly then kissed his cheek.

He wondered later that if Keating's call with the spectacular news had not arrived when it did whether the rest of the interaction in his apartment would have turned out differently.

As it was, he later attributed what happened next to fatigue and elation from the programming victory. It was as if that part of his mind, the one he forced back into the shadows to be ignored as much as possible since it was irrational and just kept getting his heart broken again and again about Abby, suddenly charged into the light to do a victory dance and threw all caution (and sensibility) to the wind.

Whatever the cause, he left his better senses behind. The look in her eyes, a look that he had longed to have pointed in his direction for so many years, caught him in its full hypnotic glare. He was entranced and ensorcelled (a word and sensation he knew he did not use or experience enough). The feeling prompted him to hug her in joyful celebration. It felt good to hold her that way—not out of sympathy or sorrow but out of genuine elation—better than good, miraculous even. Abby always had that effect on him. It was like the very life force that kept her heart beating and neurons firing also emitted a pulse or a chemical that every cell in his body was hooked on.

He felt an invigorating tingle along his skin as her hair brushed against his neck. She lifted her head to look at him as if to say something but before she could he did the unexpected and unthinkable.

He kissed her.

It was a simple, soft brush of the lips that did not last long, several seconds at most, before his rational brain stormed back to the control room. As it did, McGee pulled back and managed to step away from her. He stood with his shoulder blades press against the door to his room, holding his hand out to clumsily direct her to the exit.

"I'm sorry about that," he said quickly as he felt his face grow hot while his heart again began working double time. "I shouldn't have done that. I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

Abby gazed at him with those eyes that made his knees weak in a way that even a several dozen flights of stairs could not.

"McGee," she began, "you don't need to…"

"You should go," he said abruptly. "You're right. I'm a lot more tired than I realized, and I should rest for a while."

She looked at him questioningly then drew nearer. Her own heart was racing as swooping feelings of excitement and unadulterated happiness twirled merrily around her insides. Still, she forced herself to focus on him and how he was reacting. His agitation concerned her. She touched his forehead and then his cheek with the back of her hand. He felt himself blush further at her touch as he nudged her hand away.

"You're supposed to be working," he said quickly. "Gibbs might need you."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise as that detail had slipped her mind. She blinked a few times then pulled her phone from her pocket to verify the time.

"I can stay if you like," she said. "I can just call in and take leave."

The offer caught him by surprise. He had expected a scolding at the very least for what he had done. He swiftly convinced himself that she was buying into his fatigue theory and her worry was overtaking her urge to lecture him for being too forward and letting his lips wander.

"It's better if you go," McGee began as he felt his resolve buckling. "Thanks for driving me home. I'm fine, but it would be best if I was alone for a bit… to rest."

Abby began to smile, but it slowly melted into a frown as she saw agitation and frustration flooding his eyes. She rubbed his arm comfortingly.

"Call me if you need anything," she said.

"I appreciate that," he nodded without agreeing. "And, um, again, about… you know… that other thing. I wasn't thinking straight, and I'm so sorry."

"Don't be; I'm not," she winked and grinned then quickly leaned in and kissed him briefly on the lips. "See, it doesn't hurt a bit."

McGee froze, unsure how to react. The urge to go back to that thing their lips were just doing, which his mind told him was wrong but that the rest of him rather enjoyed, was strong. It was, oddly, his heart (the metaphorical one, not the one flailing excitedly in his chest) that told not to move. It was certain this was just another one of those odd moments between them—this one fueled by Abby's months of worry rather than a change of heart on her part. And, he reminded himself, he had recently and finally decided to not let himself get tangled in the mess of feelings that made him think irrational and impossible things, like hope that she might actually love him and not just care as a friend.

He stared back at her silently and still. She seemed puzzled by his lack reaction. In fact, she seemed... eager for something more to happen, which thoroughly confused him.

"We shouldn't do this," he said with a tightened throat.

"Why?" she asked softly, taking note of the word ' _shouldn't'_ which was a lot different than the word ' _can't_.' _Shouldn't_ implied a desire, an urge, a measurable inclination towards a positive outcome; whereas _can't_ would be definite and devastating as it left no room for interpretation.

"It's a bad idea," McGee replied but even to his own ears it sounded uncertain and more like a question.

"You started it," Abby offered with a slight grin. "And I didn't ask you to stop. In fact, I didn't want you to stop."

"Abby, you're needed back at the office," he said without much enthusiasm.

"Or maybe I should stay here so we can talk," she said trying to assess what he was thinking. He usually wasn't an enigma to her but at that moment his thoughts and feelings were cloaked. "Tim, I can stay, just say the word and I will."

He wanted to say the right word, but he did not know what it was. From the expression on Abby's face, nearly every part of her wanted to remain; although what she hoped to accomplish, he did not know. McGee felt himself slipping under the thrall of the hopeful look in her eyes so he knew he needed distance from her to maintain his resolve.

"You actually don't want to be here," he said pushing her back gently. "You just didn't realize it yet, but you will. I'm confident."

She shook her head and opened her mouth, no doubt to tell him why he did not understand, so he did something he never did to her: he interrupted. It was rude, but it needed to be done.

"My job might be that of an investigator, but what I really do is solve puzzles," he said. "I may not have Tony's flare or Gibbs' gut, but I know patterns. This is one I've seen before. Here's how it goes: You feel close to your work colleagues, close enough for some to be the family you need. A little while ago, something bad happened, and it scared you. You've faced this kind of fear more than once, and it hasn't always turned out okay. So you know that we don't always get happy endings. That lingering fear made you miss me-more than you expected because you thought it would be forever. Your worry grew so much that it left you feeling badly about something, may be a few things, in the past. That then made you feel lonely so probably you turned to someone to talk about it. Since everyone at the office is busy because they're short-staffed and since your confusion is with a co-worker, you couldn't turn to them. That left you with the circle of friends outside the office that you would trust to know what you're feeling. It's a small group, but you probably only trusted one of them with this—one of the few who had met the person at the center of your confusion. So I'm guessing you turned to Sister Rosita."

Abby blinked. She wanted to disagree but could not find a suitable point to argue. Gibbs' team success was usually a group effort to the point that she sometimes forgot that they each individually were good at analysis and profiling; McGee's mathematical inclination also added probability to his toolbox. It's not that she was surprised he had such a clear assessment of the situation; it was that he had never turned those skills on her. She looked at him with a blank expression into which sorrow began to seep as his voice remained that of a calm, detached and clinical investigator more interested in facts than feelings.

"Sister Rosita has a theory about you and me—she's had it for years," McGee said recalling the first time the nun told him not to lose faith in his pursuit of Abby after she broke off their relationship. "You've never held any stock in her theory because you know what you want in life, or, more accurately, you know what you don't want and that is me. You've told me in blatant and subtle ways. You've never knowingly or intentionally led me on since we broke up. You only wanted to be just friends, and I've accepted that. This time, however, you heard what she said and it made you start questioning yourself and your choices. That only happened because you were vulnerable. I know how that feels so I'm not faulting you for getting mixed up by all this, but you can put all that in the past now. There's no reason to worry any more. Everything is going to be fine so life can return to normal again. Nothing has changed between us."

Abby shook her head.

"No, McGee," she began. "Everything is different. Just hear me out. We..."

"There is no we, Abby," he assured her. "There never was. There is you, and there is me. Separate and apart. It works. If we tried to change that now, whatever started wouldn't last long. Once you got over your fears about what happened to me, you'd realize I'm still the same person who wasn't right for you before all this happened. So what's the point of making things needlessly complicated for a week or two? I'm not into casual hooks ups that are destined to go nowhere."

"Neither am I," she said slowly, stunned by the frankness of his rebuff. "I would never…"

"I know," he cut her off again. "You would never intentionally lead someone on; you would do it by accident. You would care and have fun, but you're not into serious commitment because you have your own fears and issues. I have some of those myself—they're just not like yours. You've said it before: My problems and yours don't cancel each other out; they amplify them and make us incompatible. Like I said, you're just confused at the moment. I understand, I do. The difference between us right now is that I know whatever might start between us is going to fail. You're not thinking that far ahead because you're still just reacting to something that could have been a tragedy. While I wish sometimes that things were different between us, I accept that they never will be. That's why I can't think of a single good reason to risk a friendship that means a lot to me by starting something that's not going to work out anyway."

Her lip quivered as she trembled in the stuffy room. There was a resigned yet serious look on his face; his words and his voice carried more control and apparent wisdom than she had ever heard from him about any subject other than programming. His mind was made up and it was in command of his decision.

"Then I guess you want me to leave," she said solemnly.

McGee said nothing. In truth, he did not want her to leave. He did not want her to look at him with those hurt eyes. He did not want to be right.

But want was not a feeling beholden to his will that day.

Abby turned away and walked to the door quietly. McGee felt terrible letting her leave on this note, but he knew there was nothing he could say that would sooth her. He did, however, have the luxury of time.

"You just need some time to think," he said as she opened the door. "In a couple days, you'll thank me. Call me once you're… once you understand. I'm not mad at you, Abby. I want to talk to you and be the friends we were before everything happened in May. I only said what I did because it's true, and friends tell each other the truth even when it's difficult to say or to hear."

She looked over her shoulder with unsettled eyes and sighed.

"I know," she said. "What you said in your analysis was fairly accurate, too. I guess you know me pretty well. I was worried about you—I still am—and I did talk to Sister Rosita, but you got a few things wrong. First off, I'll always think of you as a friend no matter what, but I feel we could be more than that. Also, you said there was no reason to test our friendship. I can think of one: Rule 51."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Gibbs Living Room_**

Tony sat on the couch as Gibbs speared their dinner off the grate in the fireplace. The two steaks still sizzled as they hit the plates.

"I'm second guessing my trip to see Parsons," he said simply as he admitted something that had gnawed at him for the last two days. "It's like asking someone else to do our dirty work."

"It's not dirty work," Gibbs said. "You're digging for the truth. Sometimes, you need more than one shovel to dig a big enough hole."

Tony blinked, expecting a sharper reaction. It took him a second to reorganize his thoughts as the man's placid acceptance surprised him. He had felt the same when he told his boss what he had done by going to Parsons. Gibbs almost seemed to expect that Tony would take that kind of action.

"I gotta say, Boss," Tony shook his head as he opened his knife and started cutting his dinner. "You're taking this better than I expected."

Gibbs shrugged.

"You needed a tool," he said. "You borrowed one from someone else's toolbox. Parsons is ambitious, but he's effective. He's got a code he follows, too."

"I hope I don't regret trusting him," Tony muttered. "So, you actually mad at McGee or was that staring match today some sort of test?"

Gibbs said nothing. Tony, of all people, should know that any moment could be a test—even the ones not intended to be. Gibbs' ornery stance with his restricted agent was fueled first out of displeasure. He had given McGee a direct order. Previously, he was the least likely member of the team to blatantly ignore those. Tony had been a cop, and before that a start athlete with a privileged upbringing. He was about pushing boundaries and interpreting rules to his advantage when they needed a little blurring and bending. McGee was raised by a strict military man who demanded obedience so falling into line with a chain of command was as natural to him as breathing. Seeing him take a lazy approach to that in the afternoon rankled Gibbs.

Also, he had wanted to test his agent's resolve. Being cut down in the line of duty had a knack for making some men crack under pressure or seek a path of least resistance to avoid any kind of confrontation (the armed or the vocal kind). Other men went in the opposite direction. They developed a volatile reckless streak.

From what Gibbs experienced, he was again reminded of what the crisis counselor, Miles Wolf, reported about McGee after his assessment following the bombing of the building: He was (frighteningly) mentally stable. After today, Gibbs saw no reason to disagree with that, yet it still concerned him. There should be more fall out from what happened to him but so far none was raise it's ugly head. The agent had disobeyed, then admitted it freely, shrank back from fighting, offered up his reasoning then (eventually) obeyed as commanded and left the office (by way of a visit to the forensics lab, if the intel he received was accurate). It was textbook McGee behavior from the past, but it was bothering Gibbs.

"He's supposed to be working on that laptop," Gibbs offered. "No field work until he's medically cleared. No reason to be in the squad room until he's a field agent again."

Tony nodded, accepting the less than illuminating explanation. McGee seemed fine to him, a little tired perhaps, but everyone was drained in the insane heat gripping the region. The forecast was teasing them with reports of a weekend cool down on the way, but he would believe it when he felt it. As for the temperature in the office, he did feel a slight chill from McGee, but Ducky had warned him about that. What it would take to get his partner back to his rightful place on the team, Tony did not know, but he was working on some ideas.

"So once he's found all the prizes in that silicone cereal box, he's coming home," Tony nodded. "Any idea when that will be?"

Gibbs offered him a flat look that spoke volumes for the stupidity of the question. Expecting Gibbs to know how long it would take to break into a computer was like Ducky telling a short anecdote or Palmer posing nude for Playgirl. It just didn't happen.

"Right; wrong person to ask," Tony nodded. "So, once the computer is cracked, we look for former naval officer Darren Grayson. We'll share what we learn with the taskforce through Fornell. Did Vance actually tell the JTTF to sit in the corner and think about what they've done while we do the real work?"

Gibbs said nothing. He wasn't in that meeting, but that was his take on what happened as well. Mostly, the taskforce would be in charge of coordinating with other agencies once NCIS found anything of value and passed it on to the FBI. Gibbs' team would have the lead if Grayson showed up on anyone's radar. There was not expected to be much action on that front at this point.

"I still can't believe they used McGee," Tony chuckled as he shook his head. "Him as an international broker of dangerous toys? Come on. He's looks more like a sad and sickly extra rejected from a Top Gun casting call. For the record, if the JTTF needs someone in the future, I'm a better candidate. Okay, maybe I couldn't have done the part where McGadget got everything rigged to copy the computer without really touching any keys, but the rest of it… You know, now that I think about it, I do deserve some credit on this one. McGee is not a James Bond fan, particularly not classic Bond, but I totally see his little secret device in the watch as being old school Bond. I've told him about those cool trinkets before. I should make him watch a few of those movies with me. It might give him some cool ideas we can try."

Tony smirked as a new McName came to him that he filed away for future use: McQ. He also smiled because he now knew what he needed as an icebreaker to welcome his compadre back into the fold: impromptu movie night with a Bond marathon.

Gibbs scoffed at his agent's proclamation then honored his word to McGee not to mention to Tony that it was his movie obsession that spawned the idea for his techno tricks. Gibbs was particularly thankful to do so as the DiNozzo as Connery skit hadn't broken out in his home so far.

"I heard Abby kidnapped McGee from the office this afternoon," Tony noted. "Someone should probably check on him. She might have handcuffed him to something heavy so he can't leave again. Hey, how did she recognize it was McGee in the video the other day if you made her leave the room before she saw all of it?"

Gibbs shook his head as he took a pull on his bottle while Tony did the same.

"She saw his hands," Gibbs remarked. "Something about recognizing his thumb."

Tony half-laughed, half-choked at that reveal. He caught his breath again and blinked comically.

"His thumb?" he repeated. "She recognized one of his fingers? What do they do in that lab when no one is watching?"

Gibbs offered him a flat, mirthless stare. Tony tucked his chin and closed his eyes, waiting for the expected headslap. When none appeared, he relaxed then cleared his throat while he pressed on to the case that brought him to the house that evening. Apart from Parsons' involvement, there was another player now back on the board who needed to be questioned. Considering what Tony had just learned, he decided now was a good time to raise that possibility.

"At some point, one of us has to sit McGee down and ask him some direct questions, right?" Tony said as he cut into his slab of steak. "I mean about that Tiger Cruise, Porter and all that, right? I know we both skated around the edges before he left for Dallas. It had to be all kid gloves before because of the medication, the machines, and the doctors, but he's a real boy again, Boss. Are we going to, you know, ask him for real?"

"Ask him what?" Gibbs wondered. "Hey, McGee, remember that murder you saw but never told anyone about? Can you tell me who did it?"

Tony scoffed and then shrugged.

"He remembers something," Tony offered. "He doesn't seem to know that he remembers, but it's in that egghead of his somewhere. Maybe he needs hypnosis. It worked for him for that case with the girl who was killed in Georgetown."

Gibbs shook his head slowly. He considered that route and had rejected for the time being.

"No," he said. "I think something like that is what caused some of this problem. When he was a kid, someone told him what he saw or what he didn't see and made him believe it. I'm not messing with whatever memory might still be there until I know more. Did you find that shrink yet? Pamela someone?"

Tony chewed for a few seconds then washed it down with his beer before sitting back and shaking his head.

"Lt. Commander Pamela Reeves," he replied. "She's an interesting one. She transferred from Alameda to Norfolk in early November of 1986. Navy records for dependents don't show she ever treated McGee—not officially anyway, but about three weeks after Carol claims she did, the woman was ordered to pack up and move across the country. A couple months later, she finished her enlistment—which was strange because she was up for promotion apparently when she separated. She got a job working with Social Services in Virginia after that but got fired for drinking on the job and just fell off the radar for the next 12 years. She resurfaced in Florida at a correctional facility in '99—as an inmate not a counselor. She got a five-year sentence for possession of heroin. She was released after a year and a half then started working at a homeless shelter in Jacksonville where she's been ever since. I've left a dozen messages there, but she doesn't call back. The folks there say she's at work every day and appears clean. Maybe her time behind bars left a sour taste about law enforcement."

Gibbs nodded then offered another possibility.

"Or her time in the ranks left her with the same sensation about anything related to the Navy," Gibbs remarked. Tony nodded at the possibility. "She went from being a successful officer to a drunk and a junky less than a year after leaving Alameda? Something happened. Find out what."

Tony nodded. He sat quietly on the couch considering the many pieces of the puzzle in front of them. He chuckled quietly as a movie metaphor came to mind. As if sensing he had something to offer, Gibbs looked at him expectantly.

"It's like _National Treasure_ ," Tony explained. "This whole digging thing we're doing. Every clue leads to another clue. Base shot up in Afghanistan leads to a deep check on one of the victim's backgrounds. That leads to a missing NIS file. That leads to a San Francisco cold case, which gives us the name of Kyle Renner, who was on a Tiger Cruise where the cold case started. We have missing psychologist, with a questionable separation from the Navy, who years ago treated the victim of the Afghanistan attack but buried the records then her life fell apart. The gun from the attack has a connection to the DEA, which leads us back to the San Francisco case... maybe. I'm just waiting for Nicholas Cage to bust in here saying there's a map on the back of an antique cerveza label that leads to a stash of Mike Franks' secret files."

Gibb raised his eyebrows then half shrugged. It was a fair assessment of the case so far. The twists and turns were not atypical when dealing with a cold case. A lot of information got lost of misplaced over the years so rediscovering it gave the findings a sometimes dramatic bend. But the truth was usually much simpler. Once it was solved, you could step back and see very distinct, straight lines connecting the key components. And as for Franks' stash of secret files, Gibbs had looked at the few remaining documents that he had not burned. None of them was relevant or helpful, which was a letdown considering what he now knew from his friend in New Orleans. As if reading his mind, Tony asked about that piece.

"Did you reach Agent Pride?" Tony asked, remembering yet another nuance he had not mentioned. "I left you his message. He said something about knowing about closed cases from way back. Does he know anything about this one that I should know?"

Gibbs clenched his jaw. There was a well-sanded piece of wood in the basement that absorbed his frustration following his brief call to the New Orleans agent earlier. It wasn't so much that Pride had information. It was more that he was aware there was more information out there, somewhere, but he didn't know where to look other than letting Gibbs know that Mike Franks had known something—something big—and mentioned in passing during a fishing trip off his sliver of paradise in Baja. Franks had said that he left some things unfinished. That didn't surprise Gibbs precisely. No one had a perfect record when you spent your career trying to close cases. Not everything got solved.

What Pride took from the discussion, however, picked at an old sore spot in Gibbs—one that would never heal. Franks had left that bit of information, that suspicion of his, to settle (or fester, if you looked at it in the right way) until someone with a need to know could find it and do more with it than he could. The case out of Alameda was looking like it was part of that in some way.

"Mike and a few others were suspicious of Oliver Johnson, the DEA agent, back then," Gibbs said keeping his voice even. "He was involved in a lot of cases up and down California."

"Yeah, I looked a little into his record," Tony nodded. "He had a pretty high arrest rate and not a bad conviction rate from those arrests. One or two big cases. The rest were on the small side, but he made a dent in the drug trade. Seemed respectable on the surface."

Gibbs snorted. He looked into Johnson, too. The guy got awards for his case closure rate. Was even remembered as a top agent, revered at their academy for his solid and stellar career.

Tony puzzled on Gibbs' expression. It was hard and tense. There was very little in it that showed he was at all enamored or impressed with their fellow brother in law enforcement.

"Pride said something about needing to talk to you privately," Tony continued carefully. "He mentioned something about family. Was he talking about McGee? Does Pride know about the San Francisco drug dealer case and McGee witnessing something? Did Mike tell him once that knew all about it or did he have suspicions that John McGee covered something up to protect his Tim?"

Gibbs shook his head.

"Wrong family," he corrected Tony.

"Okay, not McGee," Tony nodded. "Then whose family was Pride talking about?"

"Mine," Gibbs replied stoically.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 **A/N:** More to come…


	23. Chapter 23

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Abby's Lab_**

As mornings go, this one was falling on its face.

First, Abby's apartment lost power during the night—quadrants all over the region were blacking out due to the excessive heat. She heard the transformer on the corner pop around midnight; she wasn't sleeping. Instead, she was staring at the ceiling thinking about what McGee said and analyzing his words… maybe over analyzing them (thus the reason for the sleeplessness).

When she finally did head to the office (slightly late as her alarm did not go off with the power still unavailable), she encountered a traffic jam. There was an accident near Dupont Circle which rerouted traffic into an already congested construction zone. That took her off her normal course, which meant going to a different coffee shop than usual.

However, the Caf-Pow machine at that location was out of order.

Upon arriving at the Navy Yard, she encountered an unexpected yet routine, heightened security drill which meant every car entering the base was checked more thoroughly. That added an additional 20 minutes of waiting her turn for the Marines to take a peek at her car's interior and undersides.

Arriving an hour late and uncaffeinated boded well for no one.

When she did finally arrive to her lab, Major Masspec pitched a tantrum and demanded a full diagnostic to work out his kinks. Irritated, agitated, and partially overwrought, she stood in the middle of her sanctuary and roared loudly at the universe to express her displeasure. Under cover of her growl, Ducky stepped into the lab wearing a concerned expression.

"Is that tortured yalp in an effort to attain relief, or was it a cry of war?" the medical examiner asked as he held out a large plastic cup with a straw to her. "Here. This is from Jethro. He said there was a report that your commute was chaotic today."

"Guards at the gate told him?" she guessed.

They were stern but alert guardians who knew many of the NCIS personnel on sight. Abby knew most of them by name and even when most had birthdays. It only made sense to her to know the men and women who were standing guard to protect her and to show them her thanks and appreciation.

"Yes, Corporal Benning," Ducky nodded. "He mentioned to both of us that you seemed out of sorts. Is there anything I can help with, my dear?"

Abby sighed. There was nothing anyone could do because, technically, nothing was wrong. She was feeling fine, at least physically. There was no problem in her lab. There was no intense case placing everyone she worked with on edge. There was no new, looming threat hanging over them.

It was just Wednesday.

"I think I just don't like Wednesdays right now," she shrugged. "Or maybe it was that I didn't like Tuesday much and I'm not over that yet so Wednesday is paying the price."

She cinched her mouth into a tight pucker then sucked on her straw. The gifted Caf-Pow from Gibbs offered little comfort or solace; although the headache brewing behind her eyes did take a step back.

"You left early yesterday," Ducky began slowly. "I heard you spent some time with Timothy."

Abby nodded and did her best not to pout as she did so. Normally, after spending a night tied in knots and worrying she had said or done something wrong, her first act of the day would have been to hunt down McGee and talk to him, make him understand.

But she wasn't going to do that. Not this time.

Oh, she was going to talk to him again for certain because he needed to have a few misconceptions corrected; however, what he needed most, she realized in the early morning hours was quiet and space. He was adjusting to a lot upon his return. He was trying to prove to himself as much as anyone else that he was no longer a patient and in need of care. She was certain that was as much part of why he volunteered to step up his participation in the JTTF operation.

There was also the problem of what he said. She had heard him and listened. He said things to her he never had before; in addition to his actual words he also told her something devastating and disheartening: He doubted her.

She wanted to be mad about that, to argue him into submission by telling him how wrong he was, but she found she could not. She realized that he was justified in his doubt about her professed interest in renewing a relationship and about any longevity such an undertaking might have.

At least, from his point of view he was right to do that.

Abby spent the night thinking about what he said and also what Sarah said during her mini-breakdown. There was a lot of angst and abruptness in Abby's relationship with McGee. He had an exceedingly stable personality. While he had fussy aspects to his nature, he was not someone who generally created drama. He was contemplative and calm. He did not inflict his views or his wants on people. He would, for the sake of keeping the peace and getting the job done, bend to the wishes of others frequently. Abby knew that was not a lack of backbone on his part but rather a form of willingness to accommodate others to achieve success. Abby was more of an edict kind of person. Her way or the highway usually worked best for her because her world involved the absolutes of science. There were definite rules, and there were nearly always concrete answers.

She had begun to see that she transferred that approach to her personal life. What she wanted she demanded in both overt and subtle ways. To the outside observer, that might make it seem as though she did jerk McGee around like a puppet, making him do things he did not want to do and putting him in positions he would rather avoid. But that was not the whole story. He was more than capable of putting his foot down and walking away or stopping what was bothering him.

He had done so with great yet quiet effort the previous day.

So now, Abby was thinking.

"How did your visit with Timothy go?" Ducky asked carefully.

Abby considered her answer. McGee had accused her of not caring for him in the way she professed. While every cell in her body disagreed, she was faced with a conundrum. She believed she loved him, but he raised the problem of their history. She had waltzed up to the line of going beyond deep like and into love with him before and backed off before it reached that point. What if it happened again? He was thinking in terms of it ending their friendship altogether. It never occurred to her that she could hurt him so badly that he could contemplate that as a result. And while she couldn't imagine it, she was starting to understand the sort of pain that would cause. Spending just one afternoon and evening considering that McGee might not actually feel the same as she did created an ache that left her feeling sick. If he had cared for her all this time and felt like this, believing she did not feel the same, it must have been torture. Thoughts and worries like that were what kept her awake all night.

"He's not quite himself yet, I hope," Abby replied. "I mean, he's McGee and all, but he's… cautious. Not the typical McGee caution that doesn't want to make Gibbs angry or is suspicious of what Tony did when he wasn't looking. He just seems…"

"Aloof?" Ducky offered then nodded. "I've spoken with several people who noticed that as well. When I spoke with him on the phone the other day, he was clipped and, as you say, cautious, with me as well. However, I doubt Timothy is wantonly giving anyone the cold shoulder. I suspect he is merely mirroring what he perceived as his colleagues' lack of interest in his welfare while he was recovering. "

Abby hung her head feeling guilty for not being more resourceful in trying to contact him. She could have easily called Carol McGee's home—she even considered doing so—but Sarah's insistence that doing so would have been good for her brother deterred Abby. All the time Sarah thought she was protecting her brother she was hurting him. His forced casualness at seeing his friends upon his return to DC now seemed to be red flags for hurt feelings—something he was not going to admit because with Gibbs' team that, like an apology, would be a sign of weakness.

"So when none of us reached out to him he thought no one cared?" Abby surmised. "But that's not true. Ellie sent him messages regularly—nothing all that interesting, but she did reach out to him. Granted, he never really replied. Other people wanted to contact him but… couldn't. I tried to tell him yesterday, here in the lab anyway, that it was great to see him. I said exactly that."

She did not think she needed to mention the other things she said when she arrived at McGee's apartment. She sighed sadly as Ducky pat her on the arm consolingly while explaining that their colleague's odd behavior was perfectly normally at this stage. McGee was making the adjustment back to the life he knew. The problem was that McGee's life changed forever in some respects back in May. He had been in precarious situations before, but this time he met death face-to-face and nearly did not look away. That would be a humbling and terrifying experience for anyone. While Ducky had no doubt the agent would shed whatever hesitations he felt at reclaiming his place with his team and would again find his niche, he suspect it would take a bit of time.

"I understand the inclination to shower Timothy with overtures of friendship and affection to alleviate the belief that he was not forgotten, but we should also respect his desire to ease back into his life at his own pace," Ducky advised. "He suffered more than a physical injury from what happened to him in Afghanistan. I would never insult Timothy by referring to him as delicate, but that is an accurate description of the emotional state he is likely finding himself in at the moment. For now, we need to be patient."

"So if he says or does something that's not very McGee-like, I shouldn't worry?" Abby asked with a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

"Well, that would depend on what he says or does," Ducky replied. "You spent some time with him yesterday. Was there something that concerned you?"

Abby paused and chewed her lip. She wasn't sure how much of what bothered her in his behavior was concern for him and how much was feelings of rejection. McGee told her that she was confused and reacting out of fear. That sounded reasonable and rational—two things McGee was generally—but it initially also concerned her that he might be right. The only thing convincing her otherwise was that she came to the realization about her feelings for him before he was hurt; however, if Ducky was right (and he usually was about this sort of thing) the last thing she should do would be to tell this to McGee right now.

"No, nothing really," Abby fibbed as she hugged him. "He just didn't seem like himself. I guess you're right. He just needs some space and some time. Thanks, Ducky."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Vance's Office_**

At the lunch hour past, McGee stood in front of the director's desk clasping his hands to keep from fidgeting. It was trick taught to him by his late grandfather, Admiral Nelson McGee, to keep his grandson from drawing his father's ire during lectures. It was a lesson McGee learned quickly and put to good use whenever in a tense situation that required him to wait for someone in authority to make ruling or call for his input.

Vance twisted his cheek as his lips knotted tightly. The information in front of him was disturbing.

"And this is everything you've found?" he asked the agent waiting with restrained patience in front of him.

"No, sir," McGee reported. "That's just the first big things we found. Once I saw the reference to a biological agent, I didn't think it was wise to hold off passing on that information. We're still peeling through the files and decrypting them. There is information about weapons transports, names of buyers, some numbers that could be bank routing numbers or actual accounts. There's… a lot. I can't tell you the credibility of any of it. It seems crazy that someone would have all of that on a laptop that we were able to pirate so easily, but given the possibilities, I don't think we can ignore it either."

Vance grunted his agreement as he continued to read.

"Agreed," he huffed as he put the print outs McGee brought with him to the desk. "Finish up looking for anything that references Mr. Grayson then prepare to turn over the hard drive to the FBI. I'll be contacting their deputy director to arrange that. In your opinion, the rest of the encryption appears mediocre at best?"

"Yes, sir," McGee said fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "I've deduced that it's written in Python, if you can believe that."

The director sat forward in his chair and blinked.

"They used an open source language for sensitive data encryption?" Vance said as he shared a pitying look with McGee. "If that's the case, I'm finding it more believable that these guys did leave the keys to the kingdom on a laptop we basically pickpocketed from them. Why would anyone create a multi-level primary firewall nearly impervious to penetration and then only cloak the individual files in a crowd sourcing base code?"

"Only one reason I can think of," McGee shrugged. "It's not Grayson's laptop. I'm fairly certain he wrote the umbrella application that was in place to cover his virus. He either gave that code or sold it to Paolo and company. I don't know who or what they are, but they're not skilled programmers. They're middle men with enough knowledge to be a little slippery, but whoever owned this laptop is no Jedi programmer."

"Heard you used the term turbo-geek when talking to them," Vance remarked with raised eyebrows.

McGee shrugged as he looked back sheepishly.

"It's a Tony thing," he replied. "It made sense in the moment."

"No doubt," Vance smirked. "So they likely have no idea what we stole from them, which just might be a big ticket item or two. That makes us very lucky and now, for them, dangerous."

Vance snorted as he continued to process those details and followed them to their logical conclusion.

"Mr. Tyler and Mr. Brinkley are in custody and not speaking," the director continued. "Their colleague, Paolo has been identified. Vincent Paolo. American and Italian citizen. Family has links to organized crime, but he fell out of favor with them and opened shop on his own. DEA has him on their radar with ties to cocaine and heroin. Suppliers are currently unknown. They're going to take a peek at those bank accounts you found. Give them a good look before we do a hand off with the FBI."

McGee nodded as he accepted the instruction grateful for the chance to do something that felt like investigating even if it was still being done solely from a desk.

"You suspect a Navy or Marine connection?" he asked.

Vance sat back and said nothing. McGee nodded. The man suspected everything. It would be idiotic not to do some checking on their own before handing over the evidence.

"So Paolo is still in the wind?" McGee asked.

"He is," Vance answered. "State flagged his passport, but Italy hasn't done the same yet. That helicopter could have taken him anywhere. A lot of small airstrips in that region. He could be anywhere by now. Also missing following the failed raid is is Mr. Thomas Miller. FBI is putting out the word that he has now climbed on their list of most wanted after slipping through a failed AFT sting."

McGee scoffed and shook his head at the subterfuge and scheming that went into this side of investigations. In the search for the truth, there were often more lies to be found.

"ATF?" McGee questioned. "Why them? There were no weapons. This was about a computer virus."

"Thus the reason for the cover story," Vance explained. "People are always willing to believe the government screwed up. This time, ATF drew the short straw at the table with the JTTF so they can protect their legend cover ID. Tom Miller took a lot of time and money to created; they nearly wasted him on a ill-conceived operation. However, out of chaos can come order. Tom Miller may yet reappear. Don't worry. I'm sure when he does he'll have had reconstructive surgery and look nothing like you."

McGee offered a thin smile for thanks as he nodded. The thrill of playing Tom Miller, even for just 15 minutes, had been an interesting point in his career, but it was not one he cared to do again. He turned to leave the office but was stopped as it appeared the director was not ready to dismiss him.

"How are you finding your first weeks back?" the man asked. "Are you adjusting to the schedule?"

McGee hung his head guiltily as he met the man's eyes warily.

"You heard about the other day?" he asked cautiously.

"Oh, I hear lots of things," Vance said cagily.

"It won't happen again, sir," McGee promised.

Truthfully, he didn't find the schedule to be anything but annoying. Granted, the first day were hard because he did find he grew tired after just a few hours, but mostly that was due to the lack of airflow in the subbasement in his estimation. He felt ready to resume all his former duties, but he seemed to be the only one thinking that.

"I'm just used to working harder than this," McGee continued.

"It's not our choice either, Agent McGee," Vance said. "I know how it feels to be laid up after something happens that benches you. Doctors are a pain, but we keep them around for a reason. I suggest you listen to them."

"Like you did, sir?" McGee asked, feeling a little bold but entitled as he did have something of a connection to Vance due to their technological understandings.

The director was blown up by a claymore mine and sent to emergency surgery to repair the damage; then, just hours after coming out of surgery, he was nearly killed by a former agent with a twisted agenda to restart the Cold War. Despite that, the man returned to work not long after his sutures were removed.

"No," Vance said firmly. "Be better than me. I came back too soon. I knew it then, and I know it now. This agency existed before I sat in this chair, and it managed to run when I was gone. If it can do that without me, it can keep going without you."

McGee took the words to heart and tried not to let it show on his face, but he knew he had failed.

"You're stuck at a desk for a few more weeks no matter I say or your doctor says, McGee," Vance offered. "If you pass your physical evaluation then your firearms qualification, then your shield is yours again… if you want it."

The agent looked at him questioningly. He did not understand what prompted the question and feared it was a subtle hint from management that perhaps he was not suited for the field any longer.

"There's no shame in saying you've had enough," Vance continued. "You took a hell of a hit out there. A lot of men don't even survive a gunshot like that. Those that do are more likely to apply for…"

"That's not me," McGee cut him off. "I actually don't know what happened to me. I mean, I know I was shot. I know where the bullet hit, and I know what they did to take it out, but I don't remember any of it. I barely remember being in the hospital until the last few days I was there. Director, I have no intention of giving up my field agent status. I want to comeback, sir. If anyone thinks I'm not capable, then…"

Vance held up his hand to cease the brewing and unnecessary argument the agent was about to make.

"No one thinks you're incapable, Special Agent McGee," Vance assured him. "I'm just saying, if what happened to you had happened to me, I'd have second thoughts. I would hope I could come to the same confident conclusion that you appear to have, but I also know there isn't anyone in this agency, past or present, that would blame a man if he couldn't step up to the front line again. There are highly decorated soldiers who have gone through what you did, and they don't go back for another round."

McGee nodded, grateful for the man's explanation, but still firm in his opinion.

"Maybe I'm not as smart or as mentally stable as they are," he offered with a half-smirk.

"Or maybe they just couldn't work for Special Agent Gibbs," Vance nodded. "Speaking of that, starting on Monday, I'm evicting you from the cyber unit. You make them nervous apparently; they're worried one of them is going to get assigned to Gibbs to take your place while you're down there. Exceedingly twitchy IT tech specialists make everyone nervous. Report to the squad room first thing next week. You're still restricted to desk duty, but you're cleared for an 8 hour day—that's 8 regular hours, not 8 Gibbs hours. Got that?"

McGee's smile was broad and instantaneous.

"Thank you, sir," McGee said gratefully.

"You'll receive email today that lets you know your physical assessment is on August 19 and your firearms qualification is two days later," Vance announced. "You're allowed only one deferment before you lose your status permanently and need to reapply from the beginning. Make sure you're prepared."

"I will be," he agreed with a nervous nod.

"It's good to have you back, Agent McGee," Vance said dismissing him.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Tony stared at his hands. He knew he should type something, make a note of some sort in the official record, and chronicle what he had learned.

Except he wasn't sure what it was, and even if he understood, he wasn't sure he wanted to record it for all time. That would make it a fact. Some facts were better left undiscovered.

But that didn't change what Tony now knew, what Gibbs knew, what Franks had known. It wasn't precisely a secret, more an unfortunate event that had dire consequences. Not that any of that was relevant now. The heartbreaking case was closed, and it's only connection to Tony's unofficial assignment was the name that had surged past that of Admiral Porter's into the spot light: DEA Agent Oliver Johnson.

To put off making any notes about how Johnson contributed to the death of Shannon and Kelly Gibbs, Tony lifted his phone and called OIG. Surprisingly, Parsons did take his call with minimum delay.

"You're quite eager," Parsons said as his greeting. "I'm good, but I'm not that good. I've only just started my preliminary inquiry, Agent DiNozzo."

"I've got something new for you to chew on: An ex DEA Agent Johnson was involved with closing some suspicious drug cases-including the one I brought you," Tony said. "I don't have a paper trail for you, but a reliable source reported that the man got other cases closed that let drug dealers walk on a variety of charges through the mid-80's and into the early '90's. This whole thing looking bigger than just that one case in San Francisco. It's also looking like I was wrong about my prime suspect."

Parsons inhaled carefully. Tony could hear the man debating what he might say next. The agent did not fully trust the man, but he had Gibbs' confidence. Tony was running on his boss's bank of trust. He did not want to start a round of questions about Pedro Hernandez being asked again, but if Pride was correct, Hernandez's case was not the only one that Johnson made disappear. It was just disheartening to realize that without Johnson's alleged interference, Hernandez would have been in custody on the day that Shannon Gibbs witnessed him murder a Marine, which then led to her being in NIS protective custody where she and her daughter died.

"Actually, your suspect is… rather suspect," Parsons said cagily. "I looked into the Admiral's financial records. I'm… intrigued. I should inform you that in my review, I discovered something interesting leading back to your team."

"Yeah," Tony offered, "he was friends with my partner's father. John McGee was an admiral, too. It's kind of small club in the Navy."

Parsons huffed, unimpressed.

"Actually, I was more interested in the fact that Admiral Porter secretly paid for Agent McGee's lifesaving medical treatment several months ago," Parsons reported. "Well, the payment isn't what interested me. It was the fact that he had the money available to cover those costs. An O-7 Rear Admiral with 10 years in grade makes about $9,500 per month. That's a nice salary for a man without a mortgage, family or car payment. Still, it doesn't explain the sizable accounts he has."

Tony snorted. Follow the money was the oldest trick in the book. It usually worked. He sighed as he realized this meant all the worry and time spent on Porter was likely going to turn out to be a mini-scandal about defense contractor kickbacks that in no way involved McGee or Afghanistan.

"So?" Tony asked.

"You're rather blasé about that information," Parsons noted. "I told you I'm just in the preliminary stages."

"Well, I think you should send Porter's name to someone in your accounting division," Tony said. "The guy you should probably focus on is Johnson; he's a former US Congressman as well so that should get your vindictive... I mean investigative juices flowing. When he was with the DEA, he got involved in my San Francisco case."

"Yes, I already know about him," Parsons said. "But like I told you, I am just beginning to look into this."

"How do you know about Johnson if you've been focused on Porter?" Tony wondered.

"Well, because they're connected, of course," Parsons said testily. "You were right to suspect Porter, Agent DiNozzo. I'm very interested in why he paid those medical bills but did his best to keep it anonymous to the point that your partner seems to believe his insurance covered all of the in hospital costs. In the interest of the investigation's integrity, I'm going to ask you not to mention that to Agent McGee. He is not under investigation, but I will need to go through his records thoroughly to document Porter's involvement with him since he traveled to Afghanistan."

"McGee is not part of this," Tony said. "Not anything with Porter's money. Look, I know how you operate. It's part of the reason I went to you, but…"

Tony's gut twisted. Parsons had told them before he was just verifying details then sprung a trap on their leader. The only thing stopping him from blowing a whistle on the man right then was Gibbs' trust. If Parsons said he was interested in Porter only, Tony was willing to trust him… this time.

"I know everything there is to know about Agent McGee," Parsons said. "Except if he's ever going to publish a book again. I actually enjoyed Deep Six. I used it as a primer when I started my inquiry into your team. Look, you may not trust me, but you need me. I'm giving you my word: My interest in this investigation does not lead me back to any of you teammates. In fact, I don't see anyone at NCIS being of much interest at all other than as probable witnesses."

Tony chewed on that word but did not pursue it a he did not wish the conversation to go on longer than needed. Word had it McGee was in with the director and the last thing Tony wanted was for him to walk into the squad room and over hear any of this conversation.

"So what is it you think Porter did and how does it involved Johnson?" Tony asked quickly lowering his voice.

"I don't know what he's done precisely, but I'm certain he's been making money he shouldn't for a very long time," Parsons said. "How he's been doing it is still a mystery. The investments don't add up, but he does have a bank account tucked away in Grand Cayman—just like Mr. Johnson. They opened them around the same time in fact—back in 1986. I've got a lot of years of transactions to go through so if you will excuse me… I'll send you a report once I have something NCIS needs to take action on."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _McGee's Apartment_**

The storm clouds stained the sky as night fell with crashes of thunder that shook the walls and flashes of lightning that flickered the electricity. Rain lashed the windows as the cold front promised by the weather forecast rolled through southern Maryland chasing away the extreme heat.

Out of precaution, McGee turned off his computer and unplugged it. Surge protectors were generally sufficient to save electronics from a spike in power from a lightning strike. Then again, he reasoned, Kevlar was supposed to stop bullets and that hadn't worked out so well for him this year. Better safe than sorry was a cliché, but that didn't make it ineffective. He was about to pull a book off the shelf to occupy his time when his cellphone broke the quiet of the apartment. For a split second, he thought it might be Abby.

He had expected her to call... he wanted her to do so. It had been days since he sent her away to come to her senses, but that was the last he saw or heard from her. Since then, there had been no ' _sorry I was foolish_ ' email, no ' _guess you were right_ ' texts, no surprise drop in visit at the cyber basement asking to go to lunch and pretend the previous afternoon never happened.

There was nothing.

McGee had no idea what to make of that, and looking at the caller ID he realized he was not about to find out.

"Penny?" he answered the call.

"Timothy, sweetheart," his grandmother replied. "It sounds relatively quiet wherever you are. Not out painting the town with your friends to celebrate your return?"

"Home making sure my core doesn't fry with an electrical surge," he replied. "I haven't exactly seen anyone much lately. I'm banished to the computer unit."

Penny cooed soothingly as she offered what comfort she could with a little tough love.

"That's terrible," she said. "Do they chain you to the desk with locks you don't know how to pick, or is there some sort of mechanism on the door to release poisonous gas if you try to step outside? I tell you, that Agent Gibbs is little too stern sometimes."

McGee smirked in spite of his downtrodden and defeated feelings.

"I know what you're doing, but Gibbs did forbid me to step foot in the squad room," he said. "He got kind of mad when I disobeyed him."

Penny chuckled, whether it was at the thought of an angry Gibbs or her pleasure that her grandson had managed to defy the man, McGee did not know. Her point, however, was well taken. He could have called Tony or Palmer if he wanted to see them. He had considered doing just that. He got as far as sending Breena a text to thank her for the card and balloons she had delivered to him in Dallas.

"So Tony and Ellie are busy keeping Agent Handsome But Grumpy satisfied with work," Penny surmised. "I know from Donald that you spoke with him on the phone for clinical reasons. Between you and me, hearing that your unofficial office therapist is a man who specializes in autopsies always leaves me with mixed feelings."

McGee cocked his head to the side at hearing that. He was not aware his grandmother and Ducky were maintaining their friendship. Not that McGee minded. They were both mature adults with no other attachments. Still, it felt odd to think of them as friends.

"How often do you and Ducky talk?" he asked in an accusing tone then felt certain he was going to regret it instantly.

"Before or after coitus?" she asked.

"Okay, I deserved that," McGee muttered as he cringed.

"Donald and I talk on occasion," she replied. "We're fascinating people. Lately, we talk mostly about our wayward families. I have you and he has that delightful quasi-granddaughter of Jimmy's. I just love the name Grandducky. If it didn't feel like verbal plagiarism, I'd ask you to have your children call me that—you know, for kicks."

McGee let the comment slide. He was used to his mother dropping hints that she wanted to be promoted to grandmother someday. Penny never asked to be a great grandmother but he did not doubt she would excel at the position. But that was an issue for another time.

"We should cut this call short," McGee said. "I'm kind of rotten company right now so I'll understand if you'd rather be doing anything other than talking to me."

Penny sighed and assured him there was nothing he could say or do that would ever make her want to avoid him. She expressed her worry that he was having difficulty adjusting back to his life in the area and asked if he needed to talk to someone professionally.

"No," he said. "It's nothing that serious. It's just… I feel like I got left behind. Gibbs can't seem to get rid of me quickly enough. When I saw Tony the other day, he was trying too hard to pretend everything's normal, which tells me he thinks it's anything but normal. Ellie hasn't been around at all. I've been stuck in a cramped room underground with possibly the most annoying programmer I've met since I was a junior at Johns Hopkins and had to work with that guy who still lived with his mother off campus."

His grandmother listened attentively and with concern. He was experiencing stress, something that was expected during this transition, but she never liked hearing the tension in his voice. Her grandson was tough in his own way, but he was a sensitive soul. He was also, she realized, withholding information from her.

"What about Abby?" she asked. "You mentioned nearly everyone but her."

McGee scowled at his gaff in letting the conversation turn in that direction. Abby was not a subject he wanted to discuss with his grandmother—mostly because she had suffered through hearing about years of disappointment on his part regarding the forensic scientist. He sighed dejectedly.

"Oh, sweetheart, I know that sound," Penny said. "What happened?"

"Nothing, well, Abby but…," he replied listlessly. "It's the same old… everything. Sort of. I saw her and she was exactly as I expected. She's in worry overdrive and she's overcompensating. Then I did something stupid. I kind of… kissed her."

"Kind of?" Penny questioned. "What does that mean? You tried and you missed?"

"No," he scoffed. "I just shouldn't have done it. I had just gotten some good news about a program I wrote and I was caught up in the moment."

"Right, caught up in the moment of seeing the woman who you've never fully gotten over," Penny offered. "Go on."

"No," he shook his head. "It wasn't like that. I'm over her. I was dating Delilah, quite happily, until a couple months ago. Abby is my past."

"So is Delilah, sweetheart," Penny said. "I'm not hearing about you you locking lips with her this week. Well, what happened? How mad is Abby with you?"

McGee paused. That was the problem. She wasn't mad about the kiss. She was probably mad he pushed her away and made her leave, but he didn't know for certain. When she left, she looked more upset than mad. He didn't know what to make of that. If she had now reconsidered her proclamation to him about wanting to revisit their former relationship, she shouldn't be avoiding him completely. Yet it appeared that was what she was doing. He was starting to worry he had hurt her and what that might mean.

"She's not talking to me," McGee said. "She does the cold shoulder better than anyone I've ever met."

Penny considered what he said and what he didn't. It was the tone of his voice that told her most of what she wanted to know. The trick was helping him understand.

"Then you need to reach out to her and explain," Penny said. "You need to tell her why you kissed her and not give her the explanation that you were hot and bothered about a computer program. You need to be honest with her. Honey, you're a strong, clear-headed and capable person. As I've always told you, you just need to follow your heart."

McGee doubted both her assessment and the wisdom of her advice. Like Sister Rosita, Penny had her own ideas about him and Abby. He was not in the mood to hear them again.

"Well, if I'm so strong and capable, then how come I was never able to cut my feelings for her entirely?" McGee asked sourly.

"A single thread of hope can be a powerful thing," Penny said confidently. "Besides, no one ever said love had to make sense. Look at your grandfather and me: A Navy Admiral who thrived on structure and order; he married me, a peacenik who subscribes to chaos theory."

"That's different," McGee pointed out. "You went after him, stalked him in fact, from what he told me."

"I did not," Penny scoffed. "Nelson's memory was conveniently skewed about that."

"No, it wasn't," McGee said firmly. "I remember exactly what he said. I stayed with you over the holidays and on Christmas Eve, when I wasn't tired and wouldn't go to bed, he told me the story of how you met in order to put me to sleep. You were right there when he told me. You agreed with him."

"You also didn't go to sleep so Santa didn't arrive until after you took a nap the next morning," she recalled. "My point is that your grandfather and I were different for our time. I may have casually pursued him, but he wanted to be caught. The man was an admiral who commanded a battle group, Timothy. He knew about strategic maneuvers. He made sure to steer right into my path."

McGee smiled at the memory of the man. He always found it strange that his grandfather, a career navy man, could be so very different from his own father. Nelson McGee had served in three wars over a 35 year career and still managed to have a close relationship with his family. Well, his wife and his grandchildren. McGee was never certain what his father and grandfather's relationship was. When the elder admiral left the military, he and Penny retired to Arizona, far from the call of the sea. He never once called the Navy his family in McGee's recollection. McGee's own father never got the chance to retire but had considered Navy his first family and his blood relatives a substitute.

"Exactly, you both were different," McGee said. "Abby and I are not like that. Right now, she's just confused… and possibly livid with me. I mean, she said she was thinking about us an actual us again, but I know she'll change her mind so I told her we're never going to be more than friends. Now, she won't talk to me. I think I insulted her."

"Was she being honest and serious when she told you about her feelings?" Penny asked.

"At the time, yes, I think she thought she was," McGee replied. "She just doesn't mean it in a long-term sense. She never does. As soon as she settles about what happened to me, she'll go back to… how she was before with me. Awkward moments that mean nothing and lead nowhere."

Penny chewed on that information then huffed. She shook her head and pulled out her analytic voice.

"My, my, how wise you've become," she said. "You read hearts, minds, and the future now. That's an incredible gift, Timothy. I do hope you are using it wisely, for example: Not issuing holier than thou edicts on how someone is feeling in her heart."

"That is not what I did," he insisted but found his words lacked conviction.

"Maybe you're right and Abby is just trying to overcompensate for her fears and worries," Penny said. "I do know that she was thoroughly devastated when she came to see you in the critical care unit. She looked like someone had torn her heart out. She stayed until 2 a.m. waiting to just be allowed to sit by your bed for a few minutes. Friends do a lot of wonderful caring things, but that is devotion."

"That's just Abby," he muttered as he considered her offering information.

He wasn't aware that Abby had come to see him when he was still in critical condition. He had very few concrete memories from those days. What he thought he remembered, he had reason to doubt. Thinking he talked to his father pretty much ended any credibility on those recollections. At one point, he had thought he talked to Abby (much like he thought he spoke to his father), but then Sarah had said….

"She lied to me," McGee groaned. "Left that out of her mea culpa, I guess."

"Abby lied then apologized to you?" Penny asked in confusion. "Why? I thought you were the one in the doghouse."

"Not Abby, Sarah," McGee shook his head. "Sarah lied. Never mind. It's not important now. The point is, Abby wasn't thinking straight when I saw her. Once she is, she'll go back to being… Abby."

"What about you?" Penny asked. "How are you feeling about what she said? From what you've said so far, nothing's changed for you except you're running away from those feelings."

Her words jarred him as they sounded remarkably like something his father would say… in fact he had said that to McGee—not about feelings but about avoiding difficult situations and confrontations. He said it in McGee's dreams frequently still when he would make an appearance to scold his son for apparently not doing his job and solving some unspecified case.

"It's not running if you're just doing what needs to be done to avoid being needlessly hurt," McGee said. "It's maturity. Thinking otherwise is ignoring reality."

"No, that's your father talking," Penny told him in a scolding tone. "Running away from your feelings is what he did with you, your mother and your sister. I loved your father dearly, but you're so much better than the example he set for you. You care about this woman a great deal; you have for a long time. Timothy, second chances are rare in life. I suggest you don't pass them up when one comes calling."

McGee sighed. He saw nothing but failure and heartbreak at the end of this road because he had traveled it before.

"So what should I do?" he asked.

"I don't know," Penny said. "That's the beauty of it. No one knows. Nothing is predetermined—chaos theory, remember? Do whatever feels right in your heart. Go see her. Go talk to her. Hell, if you're afraid you'll lose your nerve driving to her apartment, hang up with me and call her. Say something from your heart, whatever that is: Let's talk; let's meet up ; let's be naked together; or whatever comes to mind when you reach her."

McGee choked on her offerings. He was stunned beyond stammering for a moment until he found his voice again.

"I can't believe you just said that," McGee muttered then paused. "No. That's wrong. I can believe it. I can't believe that it shocked me."

"You could use some good shocks, kido," Penny said warmly and encouragingly as she drew the conversation to a close. "Don't waste time, and don't waste your chances. Talk to her. Figure out if this is all in your head or if you've still got something in your heart for her."

He disconnected as the thunder died down but the rains increased. He wasn't sure what he would do. Penny might be knowledgeable about a lot of things and McGee knew that she had his best interests at heart; however, she didn't understand this situation the way he did. She had never lived it.

With muddled thoughts and no plans to put into motion any that did come to mind, McGee again turned to his bookshelf. His eyes were drawn to a volume that he did not recall being on the shelf previously. He recognized the author and the title easily, but the actual book was not his.

Or, it hadn't been his originally.

He slid his father's worn, leather-bound copy of _Moby Dick_ off the shelf. Herman Melville's allegory about obsession had been his father's favorite story and the writing something he considered to approach perfection. The man thought nothing written after then 19th century was worth the time or effort put into printing the books—McGee's own novel fell into that category for him. The Admiral had been a literary snob, but McGee could not argue with his taste. He thumbed through the pages of his father's book, the one that traveled with him on every deployment where it rested by his bed every night. Wedged tightly into an interior page, McGee found a photo.

McGee stared down at the two faces smiling up at him: Sarah and himself. They were children in the picture, sitting on the steps of their home in Alameda. McGee guessed his age was roughly 10 at the time. There was no writing on the back of the picture, it was just there. In the man's book. The one he took with him to every ship and every port. The family he left behind, hidden away in the spine of his favorite story, and kept close to his bed each night.

McGee felt a lump rise in his throat and felt the urge to call his mother but stopped as there was an unexpected knock on his door.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	24. Chapter 24

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _McGee's Apartment_**

He walked to the door, casting a worried glance over his shoulder as he spied the ferocious storm still raging just beyond the glass panes. He peeked into the spy hole and immediately pulled the door open.

"Abby?" he blinked as he gaped at her. "Hi."

He felt a mishmash of emotions upon seeing her: shock, relief and worry. He didn't expect to find her at his door, particularly when the weather was so foul. He was relieved that she was, apparently, still talking to him. He was also worried about what might have prompted her to come all the way to his apartment, some 30 minutes from hers, on such a terrible night.

Abby smiled a bit sadly but also a bit cryptically. Her sadness was born of the need for this talk to occur. It should have happened much earlier, she knew, but she had been determined to give him some space to think as well. Still, she was a little disappointed he was surprised to see her. Granted the storm was one that conjured phrases like "not fit for man nor beast" but as she was a woman she figured she was safe to pass through it—especially considering the gravity of what she needed to tell him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked as his concern began to rise. The urge to step up and protect or defend-the one that sometimes got him in hot water with her-flared behind his eyes.

"Getting wet," she answered simply. "I did like you asked. I did some thinking this week. I figured we should talk in person, and I couldn't wait any longer. I took a chance you might still be up so I drove here. Can I come in?"

"Uh, sure," he blinked.

He stepped aside to allow her entry. He tried to keep his heart from sinking to his knees. It figured that just after his awkward pep talk from Penny that Abby would appear on his doorstep to prove him right (and his eternally optimistic grandmother wrong) by telling him she had her head on straight finally. He thought it wonderfully (and painfully) ironic that she was about to do precisely what he told her to do yet he was the one who felt like he lost something.

Her hat and coat dripped with the spatters of the deluge from outside as she entered the apartment. She wandered into the cramped room where his writing desk and computer resided. She smiled at the familiarity of the place. He had called it home for more than a decade and almost nothing had changed since the day she helped him move in. Even when he was enjoying an unexpected and raging success under his nom de plume, Thom E Gemcity, he never change his address, never upgraded his apartment. At heart, at home, he would always be the same Timothy McGee she met nearly 13 years earlier. There was never a seismic shift in his personality or temperament; there was only polishing of the gem that was his soul. That made her smile because it was at the heart of her reason for her late night visit.

"So you wanted to talk," he began hesitantly.

Abby turned to face him as she nodded.

"Yes," she said then grabbed his hands and squeezed them gently. "Timmy, I need you to listen to everything I have to say without interrupting because I need to get this out. Will you do that for me please?"

McGee nodded cautiously.

"Your hands are cold," he observed with some concern but held his tongue further as she had asked.

"Well, it's cold and rainy out there, but since you brought it up, what I am doing here with my hands is important," she said gripping his tighter. "I want you to look at them. Do you see this?"

He wrinkled his brow and opened his mouth to question her but stopped as she her face scrunched in a silent reminder that he had agreed not to interrupt. He held his tongue then did as directed and looked at her hands then nodded.

"I love my hands," she said. "They do amazing things. They can speak to people who can't hear. They make food for hungry people at the shelter. They help build houses for people without homes, and they help make sense out of chaos in my lab. I love all those things about them, but do you know something else that I realized that I love about them?"

McGee shook his head, mindful of his agreement not to speak. Abby then re-positioned her hands so that her fingers laced through his.

"I love how they fit together so perfectly with yours," she said.

Stunned, McGee blinked. His mind and his heart began a fierce tug of war in that instant. His heart did a backflip of sheer elation; his head was flailing around and screaming for calm and reason. He was locked between the two camps, but as they say: location, location, location. His head was closer to his mouth.

"Abby, I don't think...," McGee began to object but was stopped as she let go of one hand and pressed her index finger to his lips to silence him.

"Shh," she gently hushed him as she then draped her other arm around him. "This isn't about thinking; it's about something more than that. Our hands fit kind of the same way we fit like this."

She then kissed him, much as he had kissed her a few days earlier. Unlike the previous time, McGee did not cut short the moment. He told himself he should. His mind said to stop, but again (location!) his heart was closer to his limbs so his mind's order to cease and desist didn't register with the rest of him. He doubted that even if the order was barked in Gibbs' voice it would have had much, if any, impact. When they finally parted, breathlessly, he sighed feeling immense uncertainty as he pressed his forehead to hers.

"This is a bad idea," he said quietly and closed his eyes to keep from falling prey to her paralyzing gaze. "We're going to regret this, probably for very different reasons, but…"

"My only regret is not realizing it sooner," she said softly. "I'm not here because of fear or a reaction to anything other than how I feel about you. It took me a long time to I finally understand what I feel."

"What if you're just confused and don't realize it?" he asked while maintaining his hold on her. "A lot happened, and people can get twisted around and mixed up by extreme circumstances."

She kept firm in her stance with her body pressed to his. She smiled as she noted that despite his proclamation that she was mistaken, he had not yet pushed her away.

"McGee, look at me and answer one question for me," she said then waited for him to make eye contact. "Do you love me?"

"That's not really a…," he shook his head as he looked at her, adoring the sight and feeling painful longings in his chest.

"I'm asking you for the absolute truth—no generalizations, no equivocations," Abby said firmly. "I know you care about me as a friend, but I'm asking: Do you love me?"

He swallowed hard. The answer was easy and yet it was difficult. He had given up hope of ever finding fulfillment over his feelings for her. He knew he would always love her, but loving her and being in love with her were different to his mind. Loving her was something he had done quite naturally for a long time. Being in love with her was impossible because that would require her to love him back in the same way. She had made it clear for years that their levels of affection would never match up.

"I will always love you, but…," he said in a strangled voice.

"And I love you," she said.

"Yeah, like you love puppies, you've told me that before," he said dejectedly. "Abby, it's not the same thing, and I accept that, which is why..."

"Did you hear me put a qualifier on my statement?" she asked calmly. "I didn't say I love you like I love puppies or Caf-Pow or holidays. There's no but or however or exception of any kind. I know the timing of this has you worried that I'm not being honest with myself, but you're wrong. You're not letting me be honest with you, and you're not believing me when I tell you that I know precisely what I am saying and what I am feeling. I didn't realize that I loved you before because… well, I didn't know that I did. Not like this."

McGee sighed and shook his head.

"That's exactly what I'm saying," he replied in a voice dripping with dread as he dropped his arms and stepped back from her.

"No, it's not," she disagreed grasping his hand. "I didn't know before because I was never sure about me. I cared about you as a friend, but I never thought it could be in love, like with the capital L. I didn't know if I could do that and commit to anyone that way. I wouldn't let myself hurt anyone like that, to let them think I could feel that, until I knew I could, but I've realize that's exactly what I did to you in the past. I know that I hurt you without meaning to and all because I needed proof and evidence. It's the scientist in me, Tim. I deal with answers and facts. Except, I realized that love doesn't actually have any physical evidence to offer that I can measure and evaluate. You getting hurt scared me, but I had already come to the realization about how I feel about you before that happened. While you were in Afghanistan, I realized that I need you in my life as my friend and my colleague, but also that I want you in my life… as mine. Just mine. I'm telling you the absolute, from my heart and my soul, truth."

He could see her shaking as she made the confession.

"You're trembling," he said with concern.

"Because it scares me to say that and to feel it because it's… big," she admitted "Bigger than anything I've ever felt before, but it's real. I know it is. And while it scares me to know and feel this, I discovered only thing that scares me more is the thought of you not feeling the same."

He looked at her hopeful eyes for a long time. Her smile was wary, but there wasn't a hint of regret in her expression. She was standing in front of him, relatively calmly for Abby, quaking with worry, and speaking words that she normally avoided. He opened his mouth to speak but realized he did not know what to say. His mind was blank. She read that in his expression and giggled.

"I rendered you speechless, huh?" she grinned hopefully as she pulled him closer. "If you don't know what to do with your lips right now, this is a pretty good solution."

He froze, unsure what to do as the circuits in his brain felt like they were on overload as he tried to process everything she said and everything he was feeling. When nothing seemed to instantly compute, he held out his hands to keep her an arm's length away and said words that ached to utter as badly as any part of his recovery had.

"Abby, no," he said.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Gibbs' Basement_**

Ducky listened to the muffled rumble of the storm raging outside. He sat patiently on a bench as he breathed in the heavy scent of sawdust in the air. He held an old jam jar containing a single finger of Bourbon swirling inside it. His paused lengthened as he waited for a response to his last question.

It had been nearly 15 minutes since he asked it, a record length of time for failure to respond, in his recollection. He waited patiently several more seconds as his companion continued to ponder the board in front of him with great intensity.

"Jethro, I am aware that you possess no hearing deficits nor are your comprehension skills compromised by an excessive intake of Bourbon," the medical examiner said. "I am left to wonder if you perhaps have no answer as to why you have done such a thorough job of removing Timothy from your world; however, I doubt that. Shall I offer my own theories instead?"

Gibbs huffed as he began making measurements. He refused to make eye contact with his visitor.

"You are all too well-versed on the dangers of law enforcement," Ducky began. "You have suffered grievous injuries yourself and buried many friends and colleagues. I mention this because your behavior recently has been quite out of your normal range of limited emotions. Since returning from Germany, you have shown no outward care or concern for Timothy at all. Your only visit with him in the hospital since his arrival coincided with part of your inquiry into what placed him there in the first place."

Gibbs sighed and turned a flat expression on the doctor.

"I had work to do," Gibbs said. "Finding out what happened in Afghanistan and why it happened is my job, Duck."

"But you are more than your sworn duty," Ducky reminded him. "Jethro, Timothy has been a part of your world, your life, for more than a decade. What happened to him did something to you that I suspect reminded you of other losses from those very close to you. You are not a man unfamiliar with fear, but you face with uncommon clear-headedness. It rarely bests you, yet this time you seemed to have backed away from it. Or rather, you backed away from the person who made you feel it more acutely than you have in a very long time. Does it help any, putting Timothy out of your mind and cutting all reference to him from your life?"

Gibbs dropped his tape measure. He walked to the tool bench and emptied a several screws out of his mug then dribbled some Bourbon into it. He sipped it slowly before bracing himself against the workbench then and shook his head.

"I've been busy," Gibbs said. "He's been in Dallas recovering. Doctors said no stress. That meant leaving him be to recover."

"You took a very literal and rather convenient interpretation of that instruction," Ducky noted sourly.

"What's the problem?" Gibbs asked. "McGee have a complaint he failed to mention when he broke the doctor's rules about his hours the other day?"

Ducky frowned at the flatness of the question as much as the surly attitude behind it; although, he was not surprised by either, he was disappointed in them.

"No, which is unsurprising as Timothy does not share his deeply private thoughts or feelings often," the medical examiner replied. "That is a trait he learned no doubt from his father and then perfected under your tutelage. I never met Admiral McGee, but I do know his mother rather well. I know the man did not learn that type of repression or restraint from Penny. Interesting that the two men most responsible for shaping Timothy's world throughout his life share that reticent characteristic. Both put in place high expectations for him; both have a low tolerance for failure. Both also turned their backs on him when he needed their reassurance most."

That comment bit hard into Gibbs. He did not like being set on equal footing with John McGee. The man had been a fool about the thing that should have mattered to him most: his family. He took his wife and his children for granted. He squandered that gift of their company… their mere existence. He made no effort to be a part of their lives, and he waited until there was nearly no time left to admit that mistake.

"John McGee and I had nothing in common," Gibbs said, in his mind effectively ending this avenue of the discussion.

Ducky scoffed as he, however, had other thoughts.

"Oh, but you do: Timothy and his admiration," he said. "You also had something that Admiral McGee did not: Timothy's respect. You're not stupid, Jethro. You know that you're a father figure to him. Like Tony and Ziva (and perhaps now even Eleanor), you consider him family. You understand the responsibility that comes with that. Timothy is proving amazingly resilient during his recovery; however, resilient and invincible are not the same thing."

That caution caught Gibbs off guard. He looked at the doctor with narrowed eyes that begged for a more detailed explanation.

"The depression that often accompanies recovery from near mortal wounds can be crippling and nearly as devastating as the initial injury," he said. "Thus far Timothy has avoided that emotional mire, but that does not mean he is immune to it. He has always had reticence about him; he doubts himself and his strength as a field agent from time to time, as you well know. Doing anything that reinforces his insecure notions is unwise and borders on cruelty. If you can, you should spare him any additional and unnecessary feelings of weakness and uselessness by giving any weight to the thought that you do not trust him-or worse, that blame him for making a mistake."

Gibbs scowled as he shook his head in disagreement. There was no mention of blame or need for reprimand in any of the findings of the investigation and after action reports from the shooting in Afghanistan. If anything, McGee's action were exemplary right up to the point where he started to bleed out on the floor of the Comm Center. That was something Gibbs figured every agent should avoid, but it was hardly a lesson worth teaching. Ducky read his colleague's disbelieving thoughts in his expression.

"He voiced that precise fear, that he made a near fatal error, and that you do blame him for it," Ducky offered. "He said as much to Tony when he was still recovering in Baltimore."

"Why would he think that?" Gibbs asked.

"He is doubting himself," the doctor replied emphatically as though the answer should be obvious (and Ducky was certain it should be). "That is only natural considering who Timothy is and what he has been through. Tony told him that his actions in Afghanistan were commendable, but Tony's was not the voice that needed to utter that sentiment. It should have been you. I understand the inclination to put the incident behind us and move forward—and we should—but not before allowing Timothy to understand it. It will not help him to pretend it never happened any more than it helps to exile him to a underground room across the street. It might be easier on us to leave him there until a doctor rules he is fit to return to duty; it may help us forget our fears and anxiety for him, but we are doing him a disservice by acting that way. What happened to him was terrible and terrifying. We do not know yet if he ever will be the man and the agent we once knew, but ignoring the situation or avoiding interaction with him will not give us those answers either. I, for one, believe Timothy will come through this stronger and wiser. He has a unique capacity to learn valuable lessons when he gets knocked down. The leading one he has taught me in that regard is this: He never stays down. He is the epitome of the Zen teaching of fall down seven times, get up eight. I shouldn't need to remind you that Timothy has always been stronger than he appears. It is, if you will, his secret weapon."

Gibbs said nothing. He was well aware of McGee's strengths; many involved using a keyboard, but not all. He was the only agent Gibbs ever knew who could disarm someone simply by being nonthreatening.

Gibbs always looked out for his team, giving them the support and attention he believed they required. He reserved a special level of patience for McGee. Not a greater level or a more focused level than anyone else—just one that was stridently different from that practiced with his long-time cohort, Tony, or their new member, Bishop.

The supervisory agent knew his team members individual strengths. He knew what motivated them. He was less interested in giving them tips on climbing the career ladder and more interested in them learning to solve cases, working together, watching each other's backs and getting ready for the next case. As Ducky had raised the parenting issue, Gibbs could not help but compare his two long-standing agents: the older and younger brother on the team.

With his senior agent, there were a lot of wake-up calls needed. The former homicide detective had an ego as large as the office and was as resilient as a tank. Slapping him back into focus was needed—less so now than it had been in the early years, but the corrective taps were always waiting in the wings. For McGee, that was not as necessary. He needed them less than his partner simply because he followed instructions better and didn't possess the natural swagger that summoned the urge to screw around as much.

McGee would rarely never rest on his past accomplishments or his degrees because in his mind they would never be enough. He knew he did not possess the instincts and sheer luck of his partner. However, where Tony was born a cop, McGee was awkward in that role because he learned to be one from reading about it in a book.

"I know what motivates McGee," Gibbs said firmly. "Coddling isn't it."

"Agreed," Ducky nodded. "He's spent much of his life in a position of inferior power. His father treated him like a disappointing junior officer under his command. Reinforcing feelings of weakness with an acknowledgement of them would be unwise; however, so is the tough love of ignoring him or bullying him into staying cloistered in a locked room far from his teammates. He accepted that demotion with good graces once several years ago when Director Vance reassigned him for his own needs. I highly doubt your continued banishment will be as successful."

Gibbs grunted. Vance had green-lighted McGee's return to the squad room. Not that Gibbs minded greatly; he just hadn't been consulted first. He got a post-it note message stuck to his computer from the director's assistant stating that change. When Gibbs did finally discuss the transition with the man, Vance said he opened the door for McGee to decline and move to another position. That displeased Gibbs as well. Quitting wouldn't have been an option he offered up. However, Vance insisted he did so as a matter of course—that anyone in a similar situation to McGee's would be offered the same chance to step back. Gibbs suspected Vance's motives were not all in keeping with management altruism. Certainly the director did like McGee and recognized his value to the agency. It was that value that had Gibbs wondering. Vance and McGee spoke the same language. The man in charge was likely offering door number three as a chance to maintain an agency asset as it seemed Vance had doubts that McGee could pass the required tests to return to a field unit.

Gibbs sighed as he knew he was thinking the same thing.

"Duck, I want you to look at McGee's preliminary psych eval," Gibbs said. "It cleared him for desk duty. He goes for the full-blown head shrinking in a few weeks."

Ducky finished his glass and picked up his coat and umbrella from the bench as he felt he had conveyed all he needed that evening.

"No need," he said sliding his arms into his coat. "I've read it already. Director Vance asked for my opinion this morning. He had some concerns with that report, as do I, although very different ones I assure you."

"Meaning?" Gibbs asked with a shrug.

The medical examiner with the profiling degree smiled.

"The evaluation is flawed," he revealed. "Timothy was much smarter than his counselor in Texas, too smart, in fact. I do not think he was deliberately untruthful during his sessions, but he did anticipate the questions and gave, as one might expect, textbook perfect answers that certainly fooled the clinician masterfully. You've read the report. I believe you were not impressed by it either."

Gibbs shook his head. It was only a preliminary finding, but he did note that there were few useful or telling details included in it.

"I want him to sit with Cranston," Gibbs said.

"That was my recommendation as well," Ducky replied as he started to climb the stairs. "However, I suspect she will not find anything sufficiently detrimental. Having some post traumatic symptoms is to be expected. In my opinion, the only thing that could ultimately hold Timothy back from rejoining your team would be a desire not to be there. If you continue to push him away and show no confidence in him, you will make that decision very easy for him."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Silver Spring, MD_**

When the door to his apartment closed, McGee had not been able to watch. Confusion and anxiety were beginning to boil in his stomach as he caught a glimpse of the hurt look on Abby's face. The tears running down her cheeks, gouged at him and sent his eyes to the floor. He heard the latch catch and was suddenly sickeningly and abysmally alone.

A tremor rippled through his body that felt a lot like the adrenaline rush after a near miss on the highway. The difference was, he didn't feel relief or thankfulness.

He felt a cold knot of regret in his gut. The icy feeling radiated outward as he also felt anger well up in his chest.

It was the logical thing to do, he told himself. It was the rational and sane thing. He was just saving himself from future heartbreak. Granted, he never seemed to get over Abby entirely, but that was the point. She would always be unattainable. She would never commit to him, never love him...

Except that was what she had just offered.

And she had seemed sincere, like the kind of sincere he heard from her when she worked at the soup kitchen with Sister Rosita, the kind of sincere she had when she talked with her brother Kyle, and the kind of sincere she used when dealing with Gibbs.

"What the hell did I just do?" he gasped.

That answer was obvious as the quiet of the lonely room mocked him. What he needed to do next came to him from a memory of the not too distant past, in a voice that had much experience but from whom McGee never would normally consider taking advice. Rather than ponder it, or grab the proper attired (like a jacket… or even shoes), McGee bolted to the door with sentence ringing in his ears: _If you love her, run after her._

He threw the door open and raced down the hallway. He jumped down the few steps to the street and looked around wildly in the inky darkness. Rain lashed at him, soaking through his T-shirt and jeans instantly.

Visibility was low as he squinted against the water running through his hair and down his face. Just down the street, not far from a guttering streetlamp, he spied the silhouette of a black-jacketed figure. He ran in that direction

"Abby!" he shouted, ignoring the searing pain in his foot from whatever he trod on that was on the ground. "Wait! Please!"

She stopped at the sound of his voice and turned to see him running, well slowing to a hopping hobble, behind her. The rain poured from the bruised late night sky and drown out the weak glow thrown by the street lights.

"Don't go, please," he said breathlessly as he reached her side. "I'm sorry. I'm an idiot, and I'm so sorry."

"For what?" she asked, blinking rain drops out of her eyes as they successfully camouflaged her tears.

"For… being wrong," he said as the rain soaked through his clothes and slithered off her black raincoat and matching hat. "And for almost not remembering some very good advice until you nearly got away."

"McGee?" she questioned. "What are you…?"

The rest of her question was never spoken as he pressed his lips to hers. It was a fierce and frantic lip lock, rich with emotion held back for many years and intensified after nearly missing out on the opportunity to pour forth due to his own fears and doubts.

Had he bothered to notice, he would have felt the rapid hammering of his heart (a rate that just a few weeks earlier would have had his doctor running tests and readmitting him to the hospital). However, all that he did note was that Abby did not push him away. In fact, her arms were wrapped around him, pulling closer to him. Despite the rising almost giddy feeling welling up in him, he found the current moment a bit uncomfortable. The cold sheets of rain pouring down his neck made him question, in the back of his mind, why TV and movies ever made kisses in the rain seem romantic; the writer in him was glad he had never written such a trite and inaccurate scene. Of course, he was willing to ignore his discomfort for as long as this moment might last. As he feared, it ended too soon for his liking as Abby suddenly grew rigid in his arms then released her grasp while fixing him with a glare.

"You're not wearing a coat," Abby observed breathlessly.

"Uh, or shoes," he added as he began to tremble due to his chilly, saturated clothing and bare feet.

"McGee!" she shouted. "It's raining and like 50 degrees. Why aren't you wearing shoes or a coat?"

"I wasn't thinking," he shrugged as the storm's surge increased along with his shivers. "I needed to catch up with you before you got away."

She frowned in a determined way then gripped his hand and marched back to his apartment, tugging him alongside her. Once in the apartment, she ordered him to strip of his sodden clothing. McGee initially balked at the command then buckled under a stern glare when he understood she was not looking to join him in that pursuit. He nodded in understanding as he turned to his room. Despite the intimate embrace they had shared a few moments earlier (and the fact that they had previously shared a bed), he was not comfortable baring his scars to her at this point. He stepped into his room, listening to her issue prophesies about fevers along with lung ailments in his future if he did not dry of and warm up quickly. She was still locked in worry when he returned to her, handing her a towel to dry off as well.

"Running after me without being dressed for it was stupid," she said drying the bottoms of her pigtails. "I have a phone. You know the number. Why didn't you just call me to come back?"

In hindsight, that did seem like an easier course of action, but he shook his head with determination. DiNozzo Senior's advice was specific. No room for improvising.

"You might not have answered," he said fighting the chattering of his teeth as he grinned.

"Yes, I would," Abby said. "I was just here, pouring my heart out to you about how I feel. Do you think I said all that and then tossed it all away just because you weren't thinking straight for a few minutes?"

"Well, I…," he began then realized he had no excuse, explanation or counter argument that would suffice other than the word 'yes.'

"You do, don't you?" she asked as a solemn and careworn expression washed over her face. "Oh, Timmy."

Without warning she embraced him while at the same time, she have him a Gibbs type swat to the back of his head.

"Okay, it's late and I'm having a very weird evening, even for one that involves you, so you're going to have to explain to me if you're mad at me or if this is…?" McGee began to ask.

He was unable to finish his question as Abby suddenly looked down and nudged him back.

"Blood," she said cutting him off.

"Right, blood," he nodded then shook his head. "No. Not blood. Why are you talking about blood?"

"Blood," she repeated with concern as her eyes opened wide and she pointed to the floor. "There's a blood trail on the floor. Where are you bleeding? What did you do?"

She began a rapid pat own of his body and wound up at one of his bare feet. She brusquely dragged a chair from the kitchen table and nudged him to a sit in it as she knelt down. She grimaced as she looked at the oozing spot.

"You sliced your foot," she winced with sympathy. "Just sit still. I'll get something for this."

She scurried to grab various needed supplies from the medicine cabinet. Everything she sought was precisely where she recalled it being. That overwhelming feeling of comforting consistency washed through her as she returned to her triage post.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

"Compared to other pain I've had?" he replied. "No."

"You can't feel this?" she marveled. "McGee, I think you need stitches. It's pretty deep. Come on. I'm taking you to the ER."

"Abby, it's fine," he said.

"No, it's not," she shook her head. "It's like three inches long and pretty deep in one spot."

"I can barely feel it," McGee shook his head. "It's not gushing blood, and frankly if I never see the inside of another hospital as a patient again, that would be just fine. Just help me wrap it up. Besides, I think we have something more important to discuss than a cut on my foot."

"No," she insisted as she pulled out her phone and began dialing. "We are not debating this or messing around with it. You've just recovered from a terrible injury. Your body needs more time to recharge your immune system. You need to see a doctor to make sure this doesn't get infected."

McGee sighed and slouched in the chair as he looked warily at her phone.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I said no debating," Abby replied. "If you won't listen to me, I'm going to a higher authority."

"Tell me you're not calling my mother," he deflated. "Abby, she almost didn't let me come back here without a nurse watching over me."

Abby eyed him sternly that said she was in agreement with his mother's inclination.

"I'm not calling your mother," she held up her hand to silence him as the party she was summoning answered. "Hi, sorry to call you so late…. Um, yes, something is wrong. I'm at McGee's apartment. He went outside without any footwear in a torrential downpour that washed a considerable amount of debris onto the sidewalks where he managed to cut his foot. It is deep and bleeding, but he is resisting medical treatment…. Uh huh… I tried that, but he's not listening to me… Okay. Here he is."

She held out her phone.

McGee shook his head and pressed his lips together. Abby thrust the phone at him again. Clenching his jaw and glaring at her, he took the device and cleared his throat.

"Hello?" he said cautiously.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Gibbs voice growled down the line.

McGee glared at Abby, who mere nodded and smiled triumphantly.

"Boss, it's not that bad," McGee said.

"Abby says you need medical treatment," Gibbs informed him. "Is she lying to me?"

"That's not exactly a fair question," McGee said nervously. "She thinks I…"

"Did she looked at the cut?" he asked.

"Yes, but…," McGee tried to explain as he watched Abby begin to gather his jacket, phone and a pair of shoes then placed them on the table beside him.

"You think she doesn't know what she sees?" Gibbs asked.

"I think she's…," he tried again.

"Two choices, McGee," Gibbs said with finality. "You let her take you to the ER to have it looked at, or I'll come over and drag you there myself. Which would you prefer?"

McGee swallowed as he spotted Abby dangling his car keys from her fingers while pointing to the jacket beside him.

"We're leaving now, Boss," McGee said with resignation as the phone call cut out.

He offered Abby a perturbed expression as she crouched in front of him and slipped one shoe over his uninjured foot then held out her hand to help him stand. He did so without needing her help. He clenched his jaw in protest but relented as she held out his coat. He struggled into it before she slid under his arm to act as a support so that he did not need to put much weight onto his bandaged but bleeding foot.

"Don't give me that look," she said. "You need my help. You're not putting that foot down. You'll open the cut more."

He seethed as a stinging pain did finally register from the bottom of his foot while they moved forward in unison.

"Why did you call Gibbs?" he asked as they shuffled down the hall.

"You do what you have to take care of the people you love," Abby answered. "I know you don't want to go back to a hospital, but you also don't want to get an infection."

"Fine, but do we have to go have it looked at right now?" he asked. "I was kind of hoping we could finish talking."

"We can, and we will—later," she nodded as they stepped into the rain and started toward his parking space. "First, you need stitches. After that, we'll have plenty of time to talk. Don't worry. I'm not going to drop you off and leave you in the ER alone, Tim. That's kind of the whole point of what I came here to tell you. I'm not leaving you at all."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 **A/N:** More to come…


	25. Chapter 25

**_A/N:_** _Since accessing has been dicey lately, I'm publishing the chapter early this week while I can get into the site._

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _McGee's Apartment_**

McGee stood in the kitchen listening to the rain peck softly at the windowpanes as dreary morning light seeped into the room. He stood on one foot, leaning against the counter top for support and defiantly left the crutches he was given the night before at the ER before across the room against the wall. The sewing in his foot, a few neatly tied stitches, itched and tugged beneath the bandage, but the pain from them was minimal. He had declined the painkillers offered to him—not out of a show of bravado but out of simple stubbornness. He couldn't drive if he was on anything stronger than Tylenol, and he had things to do that day.

Fortunately, his car was an automatic so there was no need for his left foot. He scoffed quietly as any number of movie comments about the Christie Brown move and quotes from it (in Tony's voice) sounded in his head.

It was nearing 10 a.m., a respectable hour to drop by unannounced to see someone on a weekend. Not that he thought the man at his destination was a late riser. As far as McGee knew, the man only slept four hours per night (and sometimes less if there was something on his mind). McGee knew how that felt at the moment.

He had not slept much between the visit to the ER and the discussion that occurred afterward. His head was fuzzy about it from fatigue and pure confusion. Running after Abby in the rain was crazy. Agreeing to start dating her was sheer lunacy. The amazing ache he felt simply saying goodbye to her when she left for church that morning was… probably a sign of mental illness, he thought as he hung his head but smiled all the same.

Rather than ponder his mental stability any longer, he grabbed his phone and made a call that he hoped would be short so that he could get on with the more difficult task of the day. Not surprisingly, the phone rang five times before being answered just before the voice mail system intervened.

"Hello?" his sister's groggy voice carried over the air.

"Let me guess, you're still in bed," McGee remarked. "Late night with friends?"

"What makes you think it wasn't an early morning?" she grumbled as she yawned then whined. "Why are you calling me so early? I could have company here, you know."

"It's almost 10, which isn't early, and a hook up in a bar doesn't count as company so please tell me that you didn't do that," McGee huffed. "Sarah?"

"No, MOTHER," she snarled. "Jesus, Tim. You're such a prude. No, I did not pick up a random stranger in a bar. I didn't go out last night. I was up until 3 translating poems in Middle English for an assignment I'm working on for Dr. Collins. Is it already 10 for real?"

McGee scoffed. His sister was a night owl. He was more of a morning person. He began questioning, not for the first time, whether they were related.

"Yes, it is," he said. "Happy birthday, by the way. Are you going to get up in time for me to take you to lunch like we planned, or should I just send a pizza delivery to your door around five in the hopes that you'll be out of bed?"

"You're going to be like this to me on my birthday?" Sarah growled. "I'm not like that to you on your birthday."

McGee did not bother to remind her that she had forgotten his last three birthdays until the weekend after they occurred. He did not mind. Birthdays were not huge events in their family. Still, he made it a point to always call his mother on hers and always take Sarah out to lunch on hers.

"Do you still want me to meet you for lunch or not?" he asked.

"I don't turn down a free meal," she replied obliquely. "The diner on 18th Street Southwest?"

"Of course," he agreed.

It was the place she always requested and would, regardless of the time of day, request her candy bar milkshake be served at the end of the meal so she could take it to go. It was the predictability in her that always made him stop wondering how they were related.

"Oh," he said paving the way to avoid a new flurry of check-ins from her, "just to warn you, I have to use crutches because I got some stitches in my foot last night. So don't freak out when I see you. It's no big deal, but…"

Her reaction was what he feared. Even over the phone, he could hear her sit up, ramrod straight and fully awake finally.

"What did you do?" she asked. "Did you get hurt at work? You're not supposed to be working on weekends or run around chasing criminals at all yet. Why did you need stitches? Why didn't you call me when it happened? Are you alright?"

McGee sighed and reminded himself what his counselor in Texas told him. It would take nearly as long for his friends and family to heal from what happened to him as it would McGee himself. While they did not go through the physical experience, they were emotionally harmed and needed to let those wounds heal.

"I'm fine," he said. "I stepped on a piece of broken glass. The cut doesn't hurt, but Abby thought I needed stitches so we went to the ER."

"Oh, Abby, that's… interesting," Sarah said then paused.

McGee waited for something more, some comment or reaction, but found that none was forthcoming.

"Yeah, she was with me when it happened," he said, figuring his sister didn't need the details of his idiotic dash into the rain. "I didn't think I needed more than a band aid but…"

"You also thought that when a building blew up in your face, Tim," Sarah reminded him flatly as she huffed in frustration. "They kept you over night because you were impaled by a foot-long shard of glass-not that I knew about that until Penny told me like two months later. Remember what you told me? It's barely a scratch. Tim, you suck at giving accurate details about yourself, you know that?"

He did not bother to argue with her. She had been angry with him following his failure to give her the full details about the injury he suffered when Harper Dearing attempted to destroy the NCIS building as revenge for the death of his son. Instead, of fighting that battle with her again, McGee focused on minimizing her worry over this new mishap.

"It's just a couple stitches," he said calmly. "I only need the crutches for a couple days so I don't pull them out. I barely know that they're in."

Sarah scoffed. She sensed he was downplaying the situation. She had all the information she needed to get full answers later… well, almost all of it.

"So you were with Abby," she remarked. "Not working, I hope."

McGee grimaced. He wasn't sure precisely what he should tell her. Hiding what was going on in his life seemed wrong—as if he was ashamed, which he was not. Of course, telling her opened up a vast area for questioning and criticism. Then again, he reasoned, that might not be a bad thing. If he had taken leave of his senses, Sarah certainly wouldn't hold back on telling him so.

"Abby and I are… we're kind of…," he began and found he didn't know the right word to use.

They were not exactly dating as they had not gone on a date. The term seeing each other was pointlessly casual as they always saw each other at the office. They weren't sleeping together in the Biblical sense at this point; although, they had both slept in his bed the night prior.

"There's something going on between us, and I don't know what it is," he said finally.

"You don't know?" Sarah scoffed. "She finally figured out she missed being with you, and obviously you've still got the hots for her so you two are having a fling to see where it goes. It's not rocket science, Tim."

The lack surprise or criticism of his decision shocked McGee as much as the accuracy in her statement. The only thing more stunning was her next abrupt question.

"Did you sleep with her?" Sarah asked.

"Yes," he said then corrected himself agitated. "I mean, no. You know, that's none of your business."

Sarah laughed at his flustered response and silently offered up a prayer of thanks to a God she didn't honestly believe in that he was still around to be such a fussy mess about something like this.

"Well, it is my business when you remember that I'm your emergency contact when Penny is not in the area," Sarah sighed superiorly. "She's leaving for Switzerland this week, and she'll be gone for 10 days. Therefore, I need to be kept apprised on your well-being during this time."

"I'm fine so that's all you need to know," he said flatly.

"Are you following your doctor's orders and keeping mindful of your restrictions?" Sarah asked haughtily. "I ask because I happen to know what those are. I've done a lot of reading this summer about heart surgery patients and their recovery. You're not supposed to physically exert yourself outside of your required physical therapy and cardio therapy regiments until after you receive a clean bill of health around the 16-week post op date. That is still a few weeks away, so if you were with Abby last evening…."

McGee ground his teeth and thought (yet again) that the thing his sister needed most was to be placed in time-out for about a year. As usual, his momentary belief earlier that she might be starting to grow up and act her age swiftly faded.

"It's none of your business," he said through clenched teeth.

It was late when he and Abby were talking, and both fell asleep. McGee was fully aware of what he was permitted to do and emphatically not allowed to do until after receiving clearance from his medical team. Running a marathon, skydiving, and sex were all in the high stress, high adrenaline category with a big NO attached to it for him at the moment.

"I can't help myself," Sarah chuckled. "Part of my job as the little sister is to annoy you. I take that responsibility seriously, and I haven't had much opportunity to fulfill my duties recently. You have to cut me some slack."

His lack of sleep made him a bit irritated, as did the mild pain in his foot, so he grumbled at her rather than let her flit about the conversation like an untouchable butterfly.

"You mean I haven't already with forgiving you for lying to me about Abby visiting me in the hospital and forgetting that detail in your confession?" he remarked. He heard her sigh heavy with guilt. "I'm dropping it and never mentioning it again after I say this: I am still disappointed in you, Sarah."

The line went quiet. Normally, he would let that get to him and start letting her off the hook, but not this time. She was all for taking a protective stance when she perceived someone else doing wrong, but the second blame was laid at her feet, she trotted out her bag of victim tricks that usually worked wonders on him. Not this time. While he did mean it when he said that he forgave her for her actions toward Abby that did not change his disappointment.

"Do you want me to apologize to her again?" Sarah asked. "I'm sorry. I've said it like 10 times now. Why did Abby rat me out?"

McGee scoffed and shook his head. No one could do sincerely sullen to aggressive offended in the same breath like Sarah… except maybe Abby. He shook his head dismissing that comparison and simply reminded himself that sometimes his little sister was a lost cause. Of course, that did not mean he would give up on her.

"She didn't," he replied. "Penny did."

"Oh," Sarah groaned. "Great. Now, I wish it had been Abby."

McGee smiled. Nothing took the wind out of Sarah's sails quite like worrying their grandmother might be displeased with her. McGee did not fully understand why; then again, he had never been on the receiving end of Penny's displeasure.

"So," Sarah sighed, "since you claim you don't know what's going on between you and Abby, can I give you some advice? This is something I learned from the wisdom of a contemporary British philosopher,: You can't always get what you want, but sometimes you get what you need."

McGee scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"That's not a philosopher," he disagreed. "That's Mick Jagger."

"Since when are you a fan of The Rolling Stones?" his sister asked.

"Since Tony always sang in the car on stakeouts if he was bored," McGee replied. "So you're saying I'm using her by agreeing to start seeing her?"

Sarah laughed. Her brother using someone for anything was truly laughable. His Boy Scout mentality pretty much prevented him from manipulating situations and people to his best advantage. Their father had often accused him of lacking ambition for that reason, but Sarah knew from an early age that her brother simply was too considerate. She was guilty of pushing his buttons and rigging situations to her advantage with him. He usually knew precisely what she was doing but still allowed it… most of the time. However, the thought of him doing that to Abby simply to get his jollies was outrageously funny to her.

"Tim, you've never used anyone simply for your own needs in your entire life," she laughed. "What I'm saying is that what you want is a future with Abby. It's what you've always wanted. The word I believe is pined, actually."

McGee groaned and then tried to explain the gist of his conversation with Abby. Still, telling her more of the story did not appear to change her take on it. Sarah was not always the best sounding board for anything of a personal nature as her view of the world was so different from his. Despite being raised in the same house by the same family, their temperaments were stridently different. He always relegated it to a question of emotional maturity. He had some whereas Sarah… not so much.

"Look," she continued, "you say you were honest with her and about your fear that this thing between you won't last because she'll be the one who walks away. Still, you're going through with this. In keeping with Professor Jagger, this is what you need. Tim, you're the science geek. You know you can't predict the future. What you're doing right now is relying on the past. I'm not saying that's always a bad thing, but it's not always the right thing, either. Think about it: If you had simply used the past as your guide last year, you would never had the contact with Dad that you did before he died. You two had a messed up relationship that no one but you could ever fully understand. If you had just used the past and what everyone else thought as your guideline, you'd never have reconnected with him. So, knowing what you know now, do you regret giving him another chance to be a part of your life?"

McGee swallowed and knew the answer without having to think about it. The problems between he and his father made the bumpy road he had with Abby look like a Sunday joyride. Finally feeling some connection with him that was mutual had saved him a tonnage of regret. McGee knew that even if he still did not independently recall the man's death or funeral. He cast his eyes to his bookcase where the night before he discovered the copy of Moby Dick with the photo tucked between the pages rested. That picture was a small thing but it refuted all the history he had firmly believed about the man. He had always care. He just never expressed it well or properly.

"Abby and the Admiral are not the same," McGee said. "With him I needed…"

"Closure," Sarah said knowingly. "I think you do with Abby as well. Tim, I hope for your sake that the two of you stick together like glue this time. You've never been hung up on anyone the way you have with Abby. I'm not saying I like everything she's put you through, but there's a reason you never cut her out of your life. She makes you happy, and not a whole lot in the world does that for you—not the way she does. The way I see it, when you broke up years ago, it wasn't a solid break. It was more like you just hit stop on the movie rather than reached the end with the credits rolling. So, if things don't work out this time, at least you'll have your closure finally."

McGee shook his head as his chin dropped. This was not what he expected to hear from his caustic sister on this matter. Granted, she was not someone he turned to for advice normally. That was more the role he left to Penny—after all, she was infinitely wiser about people and far less apt to key someone's car if she felt someone had wronged a person she cared about… usually.

"So you don't think I'm a fool for even considering there might be a chance that this time things will be different?" he asked.

Sarah laughed in a giddy way but for some reason it did not grate on him or feel like judgement.

"Oh, you're totally a fool and being completely illogical by giving her another chance," she asserted. "That's why I couldn't be more excited for you or prouder of you. After everything that's happened to you, you need to act a little crazy sometimes. Hell, you've earned the right, Tim. You're too serious and tightly wound. Know what this reminds me of? That New Year's when we stayed at Penny's house just after Dad got stationed at Norfolk."

McGee recalled it well. His grandmother was throwing a party. When the McGee children arrived, the whole house was set up for an elegant gathering. McGee was left in charge of watching his little sister while Penny rushed around taken care of last minute details in the kitchen. Sarah had begged to go outside to play. McGee had promised her at Christmas they would build a snow fort before their vacation was over, but while there was no snow at their new home in Norfolk, there was plenty at Penny's. The problem was, Sarah was not allowed outside because she had been sick with a terrible cold. McGee felt badly for having to break his promise to her until he got what he thought was a great compromise.

"You built me a fort inside," Sarah recalled, the smile on her face evident in her tone. "You pulled the cushions off every chair in the house; you took blankets off the beds and dragged the dining room chairs into the parlor. Using all of that you built me this amazing fort with three rooms and a little maze with the blankets as walls. Penny's Christmas tree was still up so you took the lights off it and strung them through my fort and turned it into my very own fairy castle. That's still the best gift I've ever gotten from anyone."

McGee said nothing. She had been pleased with it, running though the makeshift hallway and giving names and uses to the rooms. It was the first time he had seen her smile since just after Thanksgiving when she had taken ill with her cold.

"Well, I got grounded for two months when the Admiral arrived to see the mess we'd made of the house," McGee recalled.

The man had screamed loudly enough to make the chandelier shake before making McGee tear apart his creation while Sarah was sent to the guest room without any toys or books to occupy her or take her mind of the destruction of her imaginary kingdom.

"What's that got to do with me and Abby?" he asked.

"Everyone told you that you were doing the wrong thing and you got punished for it, but it was worth it, and you know it," Sarah said. "It's one of your favorite memories, Tim; you've told me so dozen times. Part of the reason you remember it so fondly is because for one afternoon, you were crazy and spontaneous. You need to be more like the kid who built me that fort, Tim. Life is too short and unpredictable to be logical all the time. It's not foolish to take the chance and act a little crazy if it's something your truly heart wants. Sometimes, following your heart is the smart and brave thing to do."

McGee could hear his father's voice grousing about Penny offering that sort of advice as well, calling her a lunatic and a hippie and any number of other chiding remarks that all amounted to the same thing. The Admiral always thought she was flighty and had no sense of reality. McGee shook his head at those memories. In truth, he could think of no one else on the planet who had a firmer grasp of the real world and its possibilities (warts and all). That Sarah was on the same page as their grandmother was surprising.

"I still feel I'm setting myself up for failure," he admitted. "I feel kind of foolish."

"Good," Sarah said encouragingly. "Being foolish is part of being in love. Just take the chance and roll with it. You have to do what your heart tells you is right and walk away from whatever it tells you is wrong. It will never lead you astray. Because, as I said at the beginning, you can't always get what you want…"

"But sometimes you get what you need," he completed her sentence. "Well, if I'm going to do that, I need to take care of something first."

"Uh oh," Sarah remarked. "You don't sound very enthused. You sound the way you used to when you had to ask Dad for permission to do something you knew he wouldn't like."

McGee sighed.

"Well, it's something like that," he replied warily. "I'll see you at the diner around 1."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Gibbs' Basement_**

As church bells tolled in the morning mist across the District, McGee hobbled down the steps to Gibbs' workshop, feeling awkward as he did so. First off, maneuvering on crutches was not normal for him. He did not want to use them, but the ER doctor who put seven stitches in his foot the previous night had assured him they were necessary. Next, Gibbs' lair was not some place he normally visited.

Others on the team were known to visit Gibbs after hours in this spot, but never McGee. In fact, he had only been in the basement once previously. That was at Gibbs' direction when the team temporarily set up a makeshift squad room while the FBI swarmed the NCIS building to look for the murderer of a French arms dealer. Therefore, descending into the depths of the house for something not directly related to a case felt odd to him.

He did his best not to trip and fall down the stairs. The last thing he needed was to add broken bones to his list of the year's medical incidents. He was certain he could ambulate just fine without he crutches, but Abby had taken the ER doctor's words to heart. He had half-expected Abby to make a kindly threat to hurt him if she found him walking without them, but no such comments were made. Frankly, that worried him more than if she had issued an "or else" statement. He just didn't know what to make of it—or the hairpin turn his life seemed to have taken the previous evening regarding her, which was part of why he was at Gibbs' in the first place.

His world had turned on it's head, and he needed answers on a variety of fronts. As all of them started or intersected with NCIS, he figured Gibbs was the starting point for getting those answers.

As he hobbled slowly down the stairs, McGee spied his boss standing at his workbench surveying some sort of chisel in the sparse light cast by the bare bulbs in the ceiling. As always when approaching Gibbs unannounced, he was wary.

"Hey, Boss," McGee said as he managed the steps. "Is now a bad time?"

"Depends on what time you think it is," Gibbs said as he ran his thumb over the recently sharpened chisel edge.

"Well," McGee said, "it's almost 11 a.m. as far as the clock is concerned, but that's not really relevant."

Gibbs turned his head to see the three-legged approach and sighed. He received a text message from Abby around midnight letting him know he could stand down on his threat to drag his stubborn junior agent to get treatment as the sewing was complete and she was bringing McGee home. Not that Gibbs had been worried. Abby was more than capable of taking care of McGee. That he put up any resistance to her the previous evening had been surprising… or would have been if this was the McGee who left DC for Afghanistan the previous April. Again, Gibbs reminded himself, there were things still to learn about the man who had returned to them.

"Late night?" Gibbs remarked as he jerked his chin toward the crutches.

"Kind of," McGee answered. "Abby said I have to use them. Well, the doctor said so and she agreed with him, but I can walk just fine if I'm careful. I'm just supposed to use them for a few days so I don't pop the stitches. I can barely feel them, but Abby insisted, and she's… you know."

Gibbs nodded then walked to the series of boards resting on his work table. What the project would be, McGee had no idea. All he was certain of was that it looked like too small a pile of wood to become a boat. Putting the project's possibilities out of his mind, he cleared his throat as he gripped the hands rests on the crutches to keep hidden the slight quiver he could feel in them.

"Boss, I wanted to talk to you about a few things… if you've got the time," he began carefully.

Gibbs sighed and scowled at his project and the opening statement. More than a decade of instructing the agent, hundreds of hours spent working on serious and dangerous cases with him, and still he hemmed and hawed like a high school freshman asked to explain what he was whispering to his a friend about during class.

"Spit it out, McGee," Gibbs commanded.

McGee swallowed and lifted his chin slightly.

"Were you told about Director Vance's decision to let me return to the squad room?" he asked.

While his expression was hesitant, Gibbs also saw a crystal of hardness in McGee's eyes, a fragment of anger, and a shard of betrayal.

"Yeah," Gibbs said. "I got the email."

McGee paused. He was not entirely sure why he did. Gibbs was not big on discussions, chit-chat or verbal communication of any kind normally. If someone worked with him long enough and paid close attention, he could learn the nonverbal language of the eyebrow lifts, the twitches of the lips, the crinkles around the eyes. It was a complex language that was easy to misunderstand; however, given the man's stance and his flat expression, McGee read his unspoken word clearly: _So?_

"His message doesn't say where I go specifically on Monday," McGee offered. "I'm back in the building, but it doesn't say I'm back on your team."

Gibbs exhaled slowly as he absorbed the statement and the implied question.

"No, it doesn't," Gibbs replied. "Where do you think you should go?"

"Does it matter what I think?" he asked then grimaced as his aggressive sentiment sounded more petulant than anything else. "Your team is down one person. I'm allowed 8 hour days now. I can help with research and background information from a desk."

Gibbs sighed and offered him a suffering look.

"You got that wrong," he said flatly.

"I can still type," McGee argued. "You think I lost the ability to write a search query or how to electronically cross-reference data points? Maybe I'm not allowed to chase a suspect down an alley, but…"

Gibbs scoffed and pointed at the crutches.

"Not allowed?" he questioned. "Not able is more like it today. So you're wrong about that, too. McGee, I'm saying…"

"That I'm useless?" he questioned hotly. "As a field agent, I am for the moment. I know I can't do what you need me to do yet. You need someone who can help out the rest of your team. Well, I can do that from a desk. It's not all the help you need to fill the vacancy, but it's better than nothing. That kind of work is why you put me on your team in the first place. You needed someone with technological skills in the squad room because Abby is usually bogged down with all here other duties and the guys in the cyber unit aren't exactly user friendly and don't think like investigators. They always need explicit instructions or they freeze up. Well, I can still fulfill that role."

Gibbs dropped the slim, rounded piece of wood in his hands and turned to face McGee. He shook his head and scoffed again as he blinked in surprise.

"You hit your head when you were running around without shoes last night?" Gibbs asked. "You haven't said a single correct thing since you got here other than Abby's busy in the lab and the cyber guys are pains in the ass. You're usually more on top of the situation than this, McGee."

The junior agent clenched his jaw as he looked toward the floor in shame. He felt greatly like the last time he was lectured by his father—in front of Gibbs no less. He sagged dejectedly on the crutches as he decided simply leaving was best. If it was anyone else pointing out his mistakes, he might have offered an apology for the interruption, but with Gibbs that would only make the moment worse.

"You going somewhere?" Gibbs asked as he saw the defeat in his visitor's eyes as he turned marginally toward the stairs. "I thought you were looking for answers."

"I have them," McGee said.

"Oh you do?" Gibbs asked. "Do you even know what you got wrong? It started when you said 'your team is a one person down.' My team is your team. We're not one person down. As of Monday, we're one person short in the field. Oh, and another thing, I didn't pick you for my team because you're slick with a keyboard. That's what got my attention, but it's not why I chose you."

McGee looked at him with confused eyes. He was grateful he was still considered part of the team; although, he figured Gibbs could have found a less obtuse way to say it. He wasn't sure how to take the offering that his strongest skill was not what made him worthy to be on the team.

"I needed someone who could think and was willing to learn," Gibbs said. "Do you know what actually impressed me most when I first met you? It wasn't your degrees. It wasn't your FLETC scores. It wasn't your family's history in the Navy. I met a 24-year-old kid who had all of that going for him, someone who looked like the golden child for the agency on paper, but who was in over his head and did something damn difficult for someone used to being the smartest person in the room."

McGee scrunched his brow as his face reflected his confusion. He recalled the case well. A sailor's body, nearly obliterated by acid, found in a sealed oil drum at Norfolk. McGee didn't even try to tackle the case alone after taking the preliminary steps to secure the crime scene. He called the Navy Yard. He did not find that act remarkable. It simply showed how green he was that, despite his degrees and grades at the Academy, when confronted with his first homicide he was out of his depth.

"You asked for help," Gibbs continued, mirroring McGee's recollection. "You didn't assume you knew best because you'd memorized a textbook. You didn't try to solve it on your own. I've known a lot of young and bright agents in my time. The brighter they were, the more they had in common. They all thought they knew everything. Not you."

McGee huffed. He wasn't sure if that was meant to convey that he did not belong in the "brightest" group or something else. Either way, it didn't feel like the type of evaluation he needed or wanted to hear that morning.

"You were the smartest probie I ever met," Gibbs said. "It had nothing to do with your Bachelors or your Masters degrees or you being a genius with computers. It was because you wanted to learn—not just from books, but from guys who had actual investigative experience and less formal education that you. You recognized their value. Your ego didn't get in the way then. So I'm curious what happened that you're letting that happen now."

McGee blinked. He thought he had just been called arrogant and a snob, in a certain sense. Sure, he got that kind of label when talking among programmers and there was a disagreement about various languages, but he never thought he would hear that characterization coming from Gibbs.

"I'm not," he shook his head. "Boss, I just wanted to know if… It's not ego. I wanted to know if I still was considered worthy of being a field agent on your team. I spent couple months not hearing anything from anyone. It seemed like I was dismissed."

Gibbs offered him a frank and flat gaze. It wasn't that Gibbs doubted Ducky's assessment; he just didn't like hearing how true it was. He wasn't sure there was any blame to dole out for the latest blemishes on McGee's self-esteem, but he knew none of the marks were intentional.

"I did what I thought was best," Gibbs said rather than apologize. "Given the same circumstances again, I wouldn't change it. Do you realize what happened to you, McGee? Do you understand the shape you were in when we saw you last? You needed to recover. Complaining to me about that won't change the past."

McGee rested on his crutches, feeling the full weight of Gibbs' eyes. It was not a malevolent glare. It wasn't a searing stare. It was simply a gaze, an unapologetic, honest gaze. He wasn't sorry for leaving McGee in the hinterlands with his no-contact order for the team. McGee was prepare to accept that ruling and try to move on from it, but there was one question nagging at him.

"Would you have done the same thing to Tony?" McGee asked as he raised his eyes to meet Gibbs'.

The question caught Gibbs' off guard. He raised his eyebrows then blinked several times in silence as he was forced to consider that scenario. After a moment, he shook his head with confidence.

"No," he said.

"Because you figure he's stronger and could handle it whereas I'm… not like him," McGee replied coldly.

"No," Gibbs scoffed. "DiNozzo needs attention and an audience or he becomes Tony times 10. He'd hurt himself worming around for calls and email and visits. Hell, he'd have himself brought into the office on a stretcher still wearing an oxygen mask so he would have someone to hear his movie quotes. You're normally more mature than that so I figured you could handle downtime like a grown up. Was I wrong?"

Put that way, McGee could not argue and felt childish for being needy. He bit his lip as he tried not to smirk, but failed miserably. He was never quite sure when Gibbs was kidding as the man did not joke often; however, he figured there was enough truth and sarcasm in his offering that it was fair to determine he wanted to end the tension in the room.

"No," McGee replied. "But I think you're not giving Tony enough credit. He'd have nurses to entertain him and bore with his movie trivia before he came to bother any of us. He'd probably spend most of his time telling us about his games of ' _Wanna See My Scar_ ' with the nurses who gave him a sponge bath."

Gibbs snorted his agreement with that and considered the matter closed as he turned back to his woodworking. He felt McGee lingering near the workbench and sensed their discussion was not yet over.

"You have something else to say?" Gibbs asked keeping focused on the board he was sanding.

Late night discussions aside, McGee was not entirely sure he needed to say anything to Gibbs about Abby. Still, if he was to be on the man's team still, he wouldn't (couldn't) lie to him. However, it was his life and Abby, while technically a co-worker, was someone he had dated in the past without it being a problem for the function of the office. Granted, they were not working together regularly at that time, but even when things did go off the rails, they did not miss a beat in getting the job done of solving cases.

History was also on his side in this in another way. Tony had breached Rule 12 and dated a co-worker previously. That didn't turn out well in the end, but it hadn't been detrimental to the team's work. It did nearly get that other agent killed, but E.J. Barrett had trouble following her before she ever hear the name Anthony DiNozzo, so no one could really fault Tony for how her career ended.

"Well," Gibbs prodded. "What did you need to ask me?"

McGee cleared his throat and tried to find his most confident and assured voice.

"Not ask you," McGee said as he took a steadying breath. "Tell you. I'm going to break a rule… I think."

"You think?" Gibbs repeated. "One of my rules?"

He looked at his agent with a surprised expression. He did not know what he was about to hear, but an upfront admission of a rule violation was not one of them. If pressed in that instant, Gibbs would have guessed it was going to be rule 6: Never apologize—it's a sign of weakness.

Gibbs was on the verge of cutting off the apology, figuring it would be wrapped up somehow with the extended (and necessary) leave McGee had taken during his recovery, but what he heard next let him know he guessed wrong.

"Rule 12," McGee said.

"Twelve?" Gibbs blinked as he looked up to stare intently at his agent.

"Boss, you're my supervisor and you've taught me a lot, more than anything I ever learned at the Academy," McGee said. "You've saved my life and my career more than once. I owe you and I know that. So, I don't mean this as disrespect. In fact, it's because I do respect you that I'm telling you."

"You're showing me respect by rambling in my basement on a Sunday and telling me you're breaking rule 12?" Gibbs asked as he narrowed his eyes on confusion.

"It's about Abby," McGee said. Gibbs rolled his eyes at that predictable answer. "Well, about Abby and me. She and I may… that is… We're kind of… She wants to… I'm breaking rule 12 with Abby. I didn't want to sneak around and hide that so I'm telling you."

Gibbs stared and folded his arms.

"And if I have a problem with that?" he asked.

McGee looked back at him with a firm expression that was only marred by the nervous swallow evident from his Adam's Apple.

"Then we have a problem," McGee said plainly without backing down despite the quaking in his voice and the frantic, nervous blinking of his eyes. "I know you have your rules for a reason, but some of them I don't… agree with entirely… or at all."

"Really?" Gibbs remarked. "Like Rule 12?"

"Uh, in this instance, yes," McGee said cautiously. "Rule 12 is a problem for me. I understand why you have it and, generally speaking, I see the wisdom in it."

"Generally?" Gibbs repeated. "Generally for everyone other than you?"

McGee looked at him sheepishly, knowing he was caught in the man's crosshairs and there would be no escape until Gibbs permitted it. Like dealing with his father, McGee knew the only way to survive was to answer truthfully and take the punishment when it came without protest.

"In this instant, yes," McGee held his breath and waited.

Gibbs snorted then looked back at his woodworking. Just as McGee began to relax, Gibbs turned back toward him and hit him with a flat, demanding stare.

"What else?" he asked with a narrowed eye. McGee stared back blankly. "You just said you said you don't agree with _some_ of the rules, McGee. Some means more than one."

"Uh, yeah," McGee said with regret as he swallowed with difficulty. "I guess it does."

McGee worked his jaw for a second as he considered his options. Under the weight of Gibbs' glare, he summoned the courage to answer.

"Rule 6," McGee said tentatively.

"Never apologize?" Gibbs wondered gruffly, unsurprised by the answer but not pleased to hear it.

McGee nodded hesitantly as he swallowed dryly.

"Boss, sometimes apologizing is the right thing, the hardest thing, and the brave thing to do," he offered. "A sincere and truthful apology is a sign of respect and good character—not a sign of weakness."

Gibbs looked at him flatly.

"That all?" he asked.

"Rule 6 and Rule 12, yeah," McGee nodded. "That's not enough?"

"Oh, it's more than enough," Gibbs replied. "Anything else you want to say?"

"Um, no," McGee said.

He paused, keeping rooted in place, as he waited for the lecture or the order or some sort of snarling bark. However, none came. Instead, Gibbs merely shook his head and snorted softly as he turned back to his tools.

"Uh, Boss," McGee began hesitantly. "You don't have anything to say?"

"Such as?" Gibbs asked.

"I don't know," MCGee replied warily. "You're not going to tell me I can't break rule 12? Or that… I don't know, something. Boss, I don't break rules usually."

"Walked into the squad room against orders," Gibbs offered.

"Orders and rules are not the same," McGee replied without thinking, but his eyes opened wide upon hearing his words.

They also got Gibbs' attention as he turned with raised eyebrows to gaze at his subordinate with a blank expression. McGee looked back at him cautiously.

"I don't normally disregard those either—the orders, your orders, I mean," McGee said. "Last week was an exception. I just really needed my wallet and keys back, Boss. You know me. You know I respect rules, your rules, most of them."

"Yeah, except 6 and 12," Gibbs nodded. "We covered that already."

McGee hung his head feeling his face grow red with the shame of putting his foot in his mouth and beginning to buckle in his resolve under pressure. Gibbs sighed explosively.

"They're my rules, McGee," he said. "I like it when people follow my rules. I think life is better and makes more sense when people do follow them, but they're not laws. They can be broken."

McGee sighed with relief.

"At your own risk," Gibbs added.

"I promise you it won't be a problem," McGee said in a rush. "You won't even know that Abby and I are… I mean, you'll know because I told you, but if I hadn't you wouldn't. What I mean is, we'll be totally professional and not let anything get in the way of doing our jobs."

Gibbs scoffed and fixed his agent with a hard and disbelieving stare.

"What, like me finding you rooting around under her desk rewiring something she called her hot box while she sits at her computer flirting with you?" Gibbs began. "Or when the two of you playing touchy fingers on the keyboard while you're working on a computer? 'Cause that's what I've been getting from the two of you for a decade already."

McGee swallowed and looked at his feet guiltily for a moment before raising his eyes and offering a half-shrug.

"Well, that will… probably continue," he admitted. "It's just how we work together, Boss, which one could argue is actually solid evidence that we can work together in awkward situations without it being a detriment to our ability to do our jobs."

"Uh huh," Gibbs said. "This announcement related to that call I got about you needing to visit the ER?"

"Sort of," McGee said as he leaned forward on the crutches. "I was running to catch up to Abby, but I forgot to put on shoes first."

Gibbs shook his head as he looked away, a smirk tugging briefly on the corners of his mouth. Smartest guy in the room on paper, but couldn't think practically enough to remember to wear shoes, Gibbs mused with a sigh. McGee hung his head and felt his spirits sink as he watched Gibbs return his attention to the wood on the table.

"I can see how that might make it seem like I wasn't thinking straight, and it might lead you to think that I can't be professional like I just promised," McGee said. "But Boss, I had to do it. I just... I had to. It was required. Honestly, it was the only logical and appropriate action."

"You ran after her?" Gibbs guessed as he cut in without looking up. "She went to see you, you said something that made her walked away, and then you chased after her?"

McGee nodded.

"I made a mistake," McGee explained. "I said something I shouldn't have and didn't mean. Then I remembered something that someone with a lot more experience dealing with complicated relationships told me once about how he almost lost the love of his life by doing something just like that. After Abby left my apartment, all I could think of was what a stupid mistake I had just made; that's when I remembered his advice."

"Which was what?" Gibbs wondered.

"If you love her, chase after her," McGee said.

Gibbs looked up from his work with an understanding expression. He considered the statement and the man who had just spoken it to him. He offered McGee a thoughtful expression before turning back to his sanding.

"That's good advice," Gibbs nodded deftly.

He paused and McGee waited. When it appeared the man had nothing more to add, the younger agent hesitantly prodded him for something more.

"So you're okay with this?" McGee asked.

Gibbs shook his head.

"No," he answered. "And I'm not giving you permission to break any of my rules, but I'll hold my objections right now if you tell me the answer to something I want to know—a complete answer."

McGee nodded eagerly, happy to oblige.

"What made you want to become an NCIS agent?" Gibbs asked, recalling Cranston's instruction to him that the reason might shed light on the San Francisco cold case. "I know you made the decision when you were a kid. Something triggered it. I want to know what it was specifically."

McGee offered him a puzzled look, but the boss's steely gaze did not waver. The junior agent looked at the floor then shrugged as he offered the only answer he had.

"I thought I saw something when I was a kid that seemed like it should have been investigated but no one bothered to do that because only some kids said it happened," McGee shrugged. "I figured someone should have listened to us. It made me mad that no one did so I wanted to be the person who did the right thing."

Gibbs nodded. If this was an interrogation room, he would begin to push at this point. His instincts initially told him to do so, but there was a little voice in his head (very different from the pang in his gut telling him to proceed) that reminded him of something vital: This was not a suspect. McGee was ultimately the victim in a case in a larger sense. He wasn't willfully hiding anything, of that Gibbs was certain. He was, however, in possession of more information that he probably realized. Getting at it was going to take a more delicate touch than Gibbs was used to using. Ironically, the member of his time he would have sent into this kind of situation to question the victim was in fact McGee himself.

"What did you think you saw?" Gibbs asked.

McGee shook his head then shrugged. After a moment, he offered a bland answer of not seeing anything precisely but being with a friend who may have seen something. It was not far different than interviewing a child, Gibbs realized, which made sense because the recollections in the agent's mind would be with only a child's level of context since that's what he was when the memory imprinted.

"What did your friend see?" Gibbs wondered. "Must have been something remarkable to make you decide all those years ago to do this for a living."

McGee nodded as he thought about it. It had been remarkable. It was his anger at not being believed, or worse at being accused of making up the story entirely for attention, that made him burn with the desire to be someone who found answers and solved crimes, someone who helped victims and made sense of what witnesses saw to find the truth.

"I know there was blood," McGee said staring distantly at the wall. "I don't know how much. Enough that we knew it was there. Something spattered up through the vent… or maybe it was just paint. Boss, I don't remember. We were kids and Carter was always looking for some excitement back then so it was probably exaggerated."

The name he uttered prickled in Gibbs' mind. It was the first acknowledgement that the child no one could find existed.

"What was Carter's first name?" Gibbs asked, recalling the name of the child no one could identify.

"Carter is his first name," McGee replied. "Carter Scott. We grew up together, played baseball together at Alameda. His mother was a nurse at the base hospital. His father was a SEAL stationed at Coronado. They were divorced so he bounced between the two bases depending on which parent was taking the other to court."

Gibbs nodded, filing the information away for further review later.

"Any idea where is he now?" Gibbs asked, knowing there was no way to ask that question without getting McGee's warning lights to begin blinking.

McGee wrinkled his brow at the oddity of the question but answered as he figured it was merely Gibbs making him jump through hoops (not unlike the hazing a probie would receive) in order to receive his unofficial blessing to break Rule 12.

"He was in Iraq the last time I got a message from him maybe six months ago," McGee replied. "He's a SEAL now—a Commander with SEAL Team 4. We've always stayed in touch; he used to say he knew I'd make a million dollars playing around with a computer and that I'd need to hire him as my bodyguard. He was my contact who helped us locate that witness to the sexual assault last fall. Remember, there was that Marine Corporal, Brenda Alwood, who was attacked at Little Creek. The man who she said raped her was a civilian contractor and got shipped to Baghdad before we caught up with him then no one with the company claimed to know where he was."

Gibbs nodded, recalling the case well. The attacker's uncle was a manager with the company and made finding the suspect extra difficult.

"Well, Carter is the one who found him and got him to Agent Sanchez to escort home," McGee reported. "I didn't ask how Carter found him. I figured the less we knew the better. Carter's a little... Well, he's a SEAL so..."

"He's crazy," Gibbs offered with an understanding nod.

"Yeah, the good kind, mostly," McGee said mildly defending his childhood friend.

Gibbs had never thought to ask who McGee had contacted at the overseas base. All of his agents had a lot contacts after so many years digging into cases. Gibbs shook his head briefly as the answer to who the mysterious "Carter" from Franks' incomplete NIS file was had been practically within their reach the whole time.

"So what happened with you and Carter when you thought you saw something with blood?" Gibbs asked, feeling only marginally guilty that he was surreptitiously interrogating his agent. "What were you saying about a vent?"

"We were kids snooping around where we shouldn't be," McGee shrugged then looked oddly at Gibbs as though he was seeing something he did not recognize. "I'm having sort of déjà vu moment, Boss. Have we spoken about this before?"

Gibbs kept his face placid and shook his head because, honestly, they had never had the conversation. McGee had been too doped on painkillers to say much of anything other than no one had believed him.

"Okay," the younger agent accepted the response. "Well, we were on a Tiger Cruise. I was 8 so he must have been 10. We snuck away from our group. We ended up in another part of the ship for a while. Actually, we, uh, crawled into the overhead maintenance conduit; there's a void up there where pipes and wires are run through the ship."

Gibbs bowed his head and rubbed his brow as the repressed father in him cringed at the deadly possibilities of such a stupid stunt. Burns, getting lost, suffering suffocation, falling or even electrocution were all definite possibilities. McGee appeared to read his mind as he nodded sullenly.

"Yeah, it was extremely stupid," he agreed. "We were kids, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, no kid worries they might die just playing around. Don't worry—I learned my lesson that weekend."

He grew pale and a little green as whatever memory rose in his made feel a wave of sickness. Gibbs only saw that look on his agent's face in two conditions: On boats or when heights were involved.

"Anyway, we were above this one compartment-I think it was store room near the laundry-and we heard something," McGee shrugged. "Carter could see through the vent to the room below us. He said he thought he saw someone get stabbed. Whatever he saw scared him, so he yanked me back to where we crawled in and then he took off running, dragging me with him. It's supposed to be in an old NIS file, 86-152-1519. I think it is anyway. I tracked down the file when I was first stationed at Norfolk after I graduated from FLETC."

"Did you read that file?" Gibbs asked.

McGee narrowed his eyes in question as he shook his head.

"No," he replied as he was caught Gibbs' uncertain stare. "Boss, I was fresh out of the Academy and still thought the regulations were absolute. If you're in any way connected to a case, regs state you stay away from it. Obviously, I have a looser interpretation of the rules now."

"Rules 6 and 12 for example," Gibbs offered.

McGee winced at the offering but he nodded all the same.

"So if there was an NIS file on the incident, you must have told someone who called NIS," Gibbs said. "Who was it? Your mother? Your grandmother?"

"I don't know who told NIS," McGee said. "No agent ever talked to me or Carter, but I found a file that referenced us as subjects so I figured that had to be the one. The date was right."

"You never told anyone?" Gibbs pushed. "I don't believe that. Tim, I know you. You told someone. Maybe they didn't believe you, but you went to someone. Was it your father?"

That was Gibbs' first guess; McGee still worshiped his father at that young age. His mother had said her son came back from the cruise sullen and (as it turns out) in shock. A seriously stern scolding from then-Captain McGee didn't seem likely to push his son into that sort of state, but perhaps the man was more forceful than the little boy could handle. Gibbs waited for the answer as McGee paused and clenched his jaw. He shook his head stiffly. The bitterness on McGee's face startled Gibbs, who narrowed his eyes at the sudden change in his agent's demeanor. His gut told him to wait for the response. He suspected he already knew, but he needed to hear it from McGee and was rewarded a moment later.

"I told one person," McGee said disgustedly. "My father's friend, Paul Porter."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	26. Chapter 26

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Monday arrived with continuing rain and an early wake up call for the team.

Most of the team anyway.

Those permitted to work in the field received phone calls just after 5 a.m. from Dispatch. The an initial report was of a possible car bombing at the Naval Research Lab in southeast DC. The grab-your-gear shuffle started as the sun rose and had not begun to consider returning to home base by the time McGee gimped to his desk just after 8 a.m. He found the room devoid of team members and no indication for where they might be. He looked at his phone and found no missed calls. The last text he received was from Holly the night before when she sent an SOS seeking intel on a band of marauding Orks laying waste to her crops. When the message arrived, he was too tired to think strategically, but Abby was present and offered to lend a hand with advising the warrior queen.

He thought it odd initially that Abby was not bothered by a former prostitute seeking him out for help. Then he recalled Abby had peeked at his phone records while he was in Dallas and already knew Holly was a frequent phone contact lately. She had already confessed her intrusion into his account—something he already knew from keeping his normal watch over his wireless accounts while he was away. He did not find her apology necessary as he had done the same thing to her in the past with less solid reasons than she had. They did, however, promise to respect that boundary now as a sign of mutual trust. He considered making a bet with her on which of them would violate the vow first, but found he was too tired to do so. Instead, he had simply listened as she talked Holly through a banishing ritual that sometimes worked with hungry Orks.

It was strangely entertaining listening to the two women, just not in the Tony fantasy way.

It was the fact they were so completely different. Holly was uninhibited and smoothly confident in everything so that when she spoke she never acted as though anyone other than she was in-charge; it was arrogance heavily laden with her sex appeal which gave off the impression of profound calmness. Abby was her opposite in so many ways. She was frenetic and erratic, always scrambling to get answers and in doing so could be brusque in trying to be heard or get her way; at the same time, McGee knew she was possibly the most sensitive and definitely the most compassionate woman he knew. The two women had nothing in common other than a connection to NCIS. Yet there they were, on his phone, plotting to save a virtual kingdom. A stranger overhearing it might think they were close colleagues who did this all the time. He never found out if the banishing plan was successful as he fell asleep during their discussion. When he stirred a while later, the light was off and Abby's head was nestled on his pillow beside his own.

He packed away that memory and busied himself getting his various security accounts reactivated, going through his recent email, reviewing many weeks of policy memos and notices from management and JAG regarding a variety of cases both closed and still open they wanted to raise points about. That took the better part of two hours and still no one from the team appeared in the squad room.

It was apparent to him, after a call to autopsy revealed Ducky and Palmer were not available, that the team was on a call. Since the medical examiner duo was apparently with them, it was safe to assume there was at least one fatality. McGee sat at his desk feeling anxious… and useless.

He felt he should be somewhere else, shooting crime scene photos, sketching, talking to witnesses, gathering evidence. Sitting at a desk was fine when he was doing something. At that moment, he had nothing to research, nothing to verify, nothing to do.

All he had was the feeling that someone was watching him.

"Hello and welcome back, Special Agent McGee," Abby's voice said from the half wall behind his desk.

She spoke in a forcefully formal and professional tone. McGee smirked at the unmitigated suspicion it would have drawn had anyone else been in the room to hear it. He swiveled in his chair to face her. She sported a wide but shy smile as she leaned over the half wall.

"Hi," he said simply.

"So how am I doing?" Abby asked in a quiet, conspiratorial tone. "I mean with the whole ' _we're totally professional at the office_ ' thing?"

McGee wasn't sure 10 seconds of faking as if they hadn't woken up together was proof of anything other than her poor acting abilities. He admired that she was taking their need to keep their private lives off Gibbs' radar seriously. With Abby, there was always a gray area of allowable rule infringement with Gibbs. No one else on the team enjoyed her level of latitude, but McGee suspected that was also the reason they should not test the boundaries.

"It's fine for a first try," he said. "Maybe next time you can just act like you normally would."

She wrinkled her nose at the lukewarm review but shrugged her acceptance.

"I can't," she said. "Normally, if you were returning from a long absence, I would have made you a card and decorated your desk. I would have shouted your name, like really loudly, and given you a hug. I thought that would be on the list of Don't Do's."

"There isn't an official list," McGee informed her.

"Oh, right," she nodded. "Still, I wanted to do all of those things, but I didn't think I should… so I didn't. Not this time."

He nodded. When he first arrived, he located a box in the corner behind his desk with a card from Abby and a bunch of wadded up streamers along with several unimportant interoffice memos all dating back to May. It took him a moment to piece it together, but it appeared that Abby had attempted her typical welcome back greeting prior to the mess in Afghanistan occurring. At some point, someone obviously took down the decorations (perhaps out of a sense of decorum, perhaps to be less of a distraction or perhaps because they didn't think he was ever coming back) and cleared off his desk. Finding it had been an odd but touching moment for McGee that morning.

"We'll consider it already done," he said simply without explaining. "Besides, you brought me breakfast in bed yesterday. If orange juice and a blueberry scone don't say welcome back, what does?"

Her eyes narrowed as her mouth cinched as she tried to fight a grin.

"You're not being very discrete," she noted. "Are you mocking me?"

"It sounds like it, but actually I'm not," he said. "I'm saying thank you. You're sort of the only one who has welcomed me back. I know, they got called out. It'll be fine."

"Oh, you're lonely up here, aren't you?" she noted as she gazed around the vacant room.

"Well, I'm the only one here so I'm more alone than lonely," McGee replied. "Do you know where they are?"

"They got called out to the NRL," she replied. "They should be heading back shortly."

McGee translated as he raised his eyebrows. The research facility was one of the places that tried recruiting McGee during his undergraduate years. His degree (and probably his family tree) made him interesting prospect. When he took his masters two years later from MIT, the NRL put began throwing offers at his feet. If he was of interest to them before his masters, he was positively salivated over once he finished at MIT. He was given a private tour of their various labs, and he was enticed with lucrative salary offers. Of all the alphabet soup agencies who came calling with offers for him when he finished school, the NRL had been the most tempting. If NCIS had not offered him a position, the better paying, better hours and better benefits job with NLR had been his second choice.

McGee sighed with the memory as the feeling of being stuck and useless crashed over him again.

"What happened?" McGee asked. "Someone break in and steal something important or sensitive?"

"No, it sounds like there was an explosion," Abby shook her head. "Initial report was possible car bomb, but I don't know if that's still the story. Sounds like whatever happened, it was loud and it occurred either in or near a warehouse of some sort, which makes sense otherwise it would be on the news already. I'm waiting for the van to roll in with evidence."

"Think Gibbs defines the evidence garage as field work?" he wondered. "If he does, I'm going to be up here with nothing to do but reread search and seizure regulations while the rest of you do real work."

Gibbs definitions were not something anyone could claim proficiency in, Abby believed. The man's brain simply worked differently than everyone else's. She was a great admirer of that gray matter and all that it churned out. In particular, that morning, she was appreciative of the discussion he held with McGee the previous day. While McGee did not give her an explicit report of all the details, he did let her know he felt the air was somewhat cleared regarding Gibbs' opinion about whether McGee still belonged on his team. She could tell the junior agent still felt lingering doubts that something had gone wrong, that he had missed something, during his visit to Afghanistan that contributed to the shooting that (temporarily) took his life off the rails.

"You could ask him," she suggested. "Or you could just do what you think is the right thing and see what happens."

"Test Gibbs' patience my first morning officially back?" McGee asked as he cast a questioning eye at his boss's desk.

The question posed a conundrum. It felt a lot like a damned if you do/damned if you don't moment. In the past, he had let caution guide him—like when he listed to Tony and got maneuvered out of his first chance at an overseas assignment in Iraq. A moment of contemplation told him the safe answer was a definite no on showing initiative without first gaining permission; however, McGee figured there was an equal chance of getting chewed out and barked at for not stepping up to assist. He had forgotten how vexing and confusing the brain games that came with working on Gibbs' team could be: determine the proper course to take, anticipate the next move, have something valuable to add—and do it all quickly with no unnecessary explanations or chatting (which was always McGee's weak spot). But the course to take in this instance was clear to him, and it came from a source he did not usually associate with his career: his father. The Admiral drilled many lessons into his head and the one most relevant at that moment was: If you're going to take heat, it may as well be for something you did rather than something you neglected to do.

"Call me when the van gets here," McGee said.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Evidence Garage_**

The van arrived and disgorged the team. They appeared damp from the morning's drizzle. The commotion of their arrival was refreshing to McGee, who sat patiently at one of the computers near the evidence locker. Gibbs got out of the vehicle and slid his gaze coolly to his recently returned agent as the other two on the team began unloading the evidence collected on scene. A separate vehicle pulled in beside them, driven by Jimmy Palmer. He and Ducky climbed out and removed a stretcher containing a body bag. They swiftly moved toward the elevator and disappeared from the room.

As Tony and Bishop approached, McGee nodded to both of them. Bishop smiled and offered a brief greeting before Tony dropped a box containing evidence bags loudly on the table.

"That all you got?" McGee asked trying to peer at the contents.

"You missed out; we were in geek Disneyland," Tony said. "The NRL—that's the Naval Research Laboratory. Basically, it's a lab that does super-secret and really cool research for the military. It's our equivalent of where Q works in the Bond movies."

McGee scoffed and shook his head.

"Actually, it's a corporate research laboratory for the Navy and Marine Corps," he offered from his spot at the computer near the evidence lock up. "They conduct a wide range of basic scientific research, applied research, technological development and prototyping. They specialize in plasma physics, space physics, materials science, and tactical electronic warfare. It was created at the urging of Thomas Edison in 1923. They have a budget of about $1 billion per year."

Tony blinked and looked at Bishop, who shrugged as that was more than she knew.

"Fantasy camp alumni?" Tony wondered with a snort.

"They send him job offers at the start of every fiscal year," Gibbs said knowingly while wearing a stern, even displeased, expression. The evidence tech nearest him ducked his head and scurried away. "McGee, what are you doing down here?"

"I thought I could help out," he replied and pointed at his general area. "I'm not in the field. I'm at a desk."

"Your desk is upstairs," Gibbs said firmly. "How did you get down here?"

McGee puzzled on that question. There was only one way into the evidence bay from inside the building: the elevator.

"I'm not an invalid, Boss," McGee said.

Gibbs' expression remained flat as he approached and lifted the crutches off the floor. He then pointed to the elevator.

"Upstairs, now," he said.

McGee ducked his head feeling chastised. He made his way past Bishop, who offered him a scant wave and mouthed the words 'welcome back', and Tony who flicked his hand as if shooing McGee out of the room like a dismissed child. McGee glowered at him just long enough to see the movement. He turned his head away before seeing Tony flash his playful grin.

"What are you doing?" Bishop asked Tony as she watched McGee leaned into the eye scanner and draw a stern shake of the head from Gibbs. "I thought we were going to go with the flow with Tim. Remember? Ducky said we should let him ease into his return."

"That is me easing into it," Tony shrugged. "Look, the guy needs normal. Well, me reminding him of his junior status is normal—just like him getting all know-it-all with the NRL details. It's what we do. Trust me."

Bishop cast a wary look at Tony who shrugged off her expression as he proceeded to sort through the evidence bags. Gibbs passed by and muttered he was on his way to autopsy. Bishop watched him depart and leaned in to talk to Tony quietly.

"Okay, I'm confused," she said. "First off, why is McGee on crutches? I thought he was fine when he finished with the JTTF. And is he in trouble with Gibbs for some reason? He seemed a little cranky."

"McGee?" Tony scoffed. "He's always a little moody in the mornings when he's flying solo. Didn't you notice when he and Delilah called it quits?"

"I meant Gibbs," she said.

"Cranky is his default setting," Tony remarked.

"He wasn't grumbling at the crime scene… much," Bishop noted. "Then he walked in here, saw McGee, and the teeth came out. Am I the only one who listened to Ducky?"

Tony sighed and pulled out the evidence bag containing the shards of a car headlight.

"Look, our version of ' _normal_ ' is Gibbs barking at any of us who don't listen to him," Tony said. "Normal is McGee sitting at his desk surfing for some obscure connection in a bank record or a cell footprint. Normal is me giving my first probie a nudge to remember his place. Knowing that, you think this was anything but normal?"

"Actually," Bishop said handing over the rest of the evidence box to the tech, "I think we should redefine what constitutes normal."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Autopsy_**

Gibbs entered the sterile atmosphere to find Ducky standing beside the table holding the black body bag recently brought to the room. Other than his silent companion, the medical examiner was joined by another individual. Vance stood beside the body and appeared to be intently listening to Ducky.

"Special Agent Gibbs," the director greeted the agent with a curt nod. "Dr. Mallard was just about to give me an estimate for when he'll have preliminary findings on this body. Sec Nav is already on my phone wanting an update."

"As I was about to say, that will depend on what I find once I start my exam," Ducky said. "From my observations on scene and statements from witnesses who overheard the commotion, it appears that our victim was struck by a car. At some point, either the car or some other mechanism then ignited a combustible substance in what appeared to be an oil drum. The ensuing explosion then resulted in massive burns to the body. I won't know if the crash caused his demise, if the burns did, or if there was some other intervening cause altogether. I will need Miss Scuito's skill to help determine some of that. As soon as Mr. Palmer returns, we will have samples prepped and brought to her."

Vance nodded and grunted his agreement but added more.

"She has lab assistants we need to begin using now, Doctor," Vance said. "I'm not paying them so we can wait for her to do the tests they are more than qualified to complete."

Vance was a firm believer in a management style that did not allow a single point of failure in any department. He worried that he had people in various areas throughout the agency who were very good at their jobs due in part to their longevity. His concern was that they had accumulated vast amounts of institutional knowledge that made them valuable at their jobs but also detrimental if they ever left with that knowledge before it could be shared and mastered by others.

It had taken a bit of cajoling and a definite reminding of their relative titles for Vance to get Abby to accept the new faces in her lab. Vance was cognizant of Abby's past lab assistant woes. Therefore, once she understood that she would be getting assistants, she allowed her to offer input on who would be hired to fill those posts. Thus far, she was not fully comfortable with the new three faces in her world, but she had assured Vance that at least did not worry they were scheming to frame any of her coworkers for felony murder or going to snap and attack her. In his last discussion with her the previous week, she was ready to reluctantly admit they were proving helpful. The men hired had differing levels of experience—one was a retired professor forensics (who happened to be skittish about touching evidence that contained DNA), a recent masters candidate with a raging case of OCD, and forensic tech formerly employed in the evidence garage who had receive a promotion: Morris Stallnaker, Lawrence Perrine, and Bill Curly. Or, as the rest of the agency had dubbed them: Mo, Larry and Curly.

There was an unspoken agreement around the office not to call them collectively The Three Stooges; only Tony was blatantly breaking that regularly.

"I will see that one of the Abby's Angels gets the samples," Ducky said and received a raised eyebrow question from Vance. "We're trying out new names. She was singing their praises last week when she was having a difficult time following a sleepless night. You have just heard my offering for their new title."

Gibbs shook his head as Vance blinked.

"If you will excuse me, Director," Ducky said. "I need to put on proper attire for the procedure. I will notify you as soon as I have something more to say."

The medical examiner nodded to both men then departed to the back room leaving them alone. Vance waited until the door was closed firmly behind Ducky before he raised another point of concern.

"When Sec Nav called she said she wanted an update on this one by the end of the day—preferably sooner," he said. "A hit and run or an explosion at one of our top research facilities that's only 8 miles away from the White House has her attention. But that's not all she asked about. She is also interested in why there is rumor that OIG opened an investigation involving the US Navy after NCIS started the ball rolling. More precisely, she was wondering why something like that would happen without her first knowing about it. I assured her that couldn't be the case because my agents wouldn't jump chain of command and go outside the agency without clearing it with me first. Was I wrong?"

Gibbs smiled easily and inclined his head as he shook it mildly.

No," he said. "We turned over details of a cold case involving a drug dealer in San Francisco to OIG. Turns out, it might have a Navy connection or a DEA connection. Maybe both. Too soon to tell. As soon as Parsons has something…"

"Richard Parsons?" Vance glowered. "I thought we pulled that tick out of our hide long ago. When did he burrow back in—and when were you going to tell me?"

Gibbs sighed and shrugged.

"I don't tell you every contact we use in any case, Leon," Gibbs said. "We go where he evidence leads us."

"And how did this lead you to the Office of the Inspector General?" he demanded.

"You didn't want us starting waves by looking into the activities of a flag officer," Gibbs reminded him. "We didn't."

Vance glared as the muscles in his jaw bunched.

"No, you sent a weasel to do it for you," Vance huffed.

"No one knows who OIG is looking at for certain," Gibbs said. "Considering it's Parsons running the inquiry, he's probably looking at everyone and their next door neighbor. So far as I know, he's just in the preliminary stages of whatever it is he is looking at."

Vance snorted and nodded his understanding.

"That's a fine line you didn't cross," Vance observed.

"Thanks," Gibbs nodded smugly as he turned to leave. "By the way, we've got another probable link between Porter and the cold case. A couple of the kids on that cruise thought they saw someone get stabbed while they were playing around the laundry area—about where Petty Officer Renner was painting that supply room—the one that got turned upside down and dowsed in paint somehow when he claims he was giving his farewell to the XO on deck at the retirement party."

Vance raised his eyebrows. His expression asked the question his mouth did not.

"Gotta talk to the other witness," Gibbs said. "He's a SEAL now. Might be on a classified op in Iraq. We're checking into it."

"And that leads to Admiral Porter how?" the director asked.

"One of the kids told him what he saw, maybe both of them," Gibbs shrugged.

"So an officer got a report of murder on the ship but somehow failed to report it to NIS?" Vance surmised. "That's a hell of an allegation. That file was missing for a long time and there are some details in it that appear to have been strategically altered by your predecessor. How do we know Porter didn't come forward but that somehow got left out or changed in the record?"

Gibbs had considered that possibility. Franks doled out his own form of justice when he felt situations warranted it, but he would never put false information in a record to convict someone any more than he would be swayed by an officer's rank to remove details that would allow a guilty man to go free.

"Have to see what my other witness and Renner have to say," Gibbs replied.

Vance grunted his lack of pleasure or faith in the endeavor turning up the facts Gibbs sought.

"I understand that Agent McGee is back," the director observed. "Did I hear right that he's on crutches? Is he now accident prone? Or did he not get enough sympathy during his last stint in the hospital?"

Gibbs shook his head.

"Put his foot in his mouth and then stepped on glass trying to make up for it," he reported. "Seven stitches ought to teach him."

"Teach him what?" Vance wondered.

"The dangers of taking love life advice from DiNozzo's father," Gibbs remarked.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

McGee sat at his desk waiting for Gibbs to return and let him know what he had done wrong. He did not think it wise to point out the technicalities, like sitting in the evidence garage was not going into the field and that nothing in his written instructions from the director indicated any part of the building was off limits for him. Further, he knew not to be argumentative and state that Gibbs himself left no instructions and did not bother to give him taskings for the day.

So he waited.

Bishop hurried into the room briefly and smiled at him as she said she was heading out to the hospital to track down one of the guards at the NRL who left his post that morning complaining of a blinding migraine; his supervisor had just received a call from him stating he was still in the ER waiting to be seen by a physician. McGee nodded, glad he was not going on that interview. Even without his weekend visit to the hospital, he had enough of them over the summer. Just going back for his periodic checkups with this medical team was almost more than he could bare at this point.

While sitting in the room alone again, he continued going through his system to see if there were any updates needed or any change to the OS he needed to be aware of when his phone rang. The call was coming from the lab.

"Special Agent McGee," he answered, curious if it was one of the new lab techs he heard a great deal about but had yet to meet.

"It's me," Abby's voice whispered. "Can you talk?"

"Uh, yes, since I was about 15 months old according to my mother," McGee said.

"No, I mean: Is it okay to talk right now?" she wondered.

"What's up?" he asked. "Why are you whispering?"

"I'm keeping this low-profile," she said as it conjured an image for him of her ducking under her desk to make the clandestine phone call. "Are we allowed to have lunch together?"

McGee crinkled in brow in confusion then smirked as he realized this was just another in her cautious steps to maintain a professional posture during working hours. It wasn't often that he felt more confident and secure than Abby about a social situation so the abrupt juxtaposition struck him as amusing, but he managed to hold in his laugh by simply clearing his throat.

"I don't see why not," he answered. "We have lunch together pretty often normally. I don't think that's suddenly become taboo. Why? Do you want to have lunch today? I was just going to grab something at the cart around the corner then eat at my desk."

She sighed with relief that carried clearly across the line.

"I was just checking," she said. "Actually, I already have plans to take Larry, one of my new techs, to lunch today. I'm doing that with each of them individually this month so we can get to know each other better. I was asking mostly because when I take Moe out, on Thursday, you may want to tag along. He's like crazy into fly-by-wire avionics, and he would love to talk to you about that case you worked with the jetpacks."

"Rocket belt," McGee corrected her automatically.

"Exactly," Abby replied, her smirk evidence in the word. "Okay then, is it a date?"

"No," McGee said and heard a slight gasp of surprise from her. "I mean, I'll put it on my calendar, but that's not a date, like a…"

"You and me date?" she offered warmly.

"Yeah," McGee replied and found he was craning his neck and lowering his voice much as she had the start of the call. "We haven't actually had… one of those yet. Having dinner to catch me up on everything I missed and talking half the night isn't a date. That's just…"

"Hanging out?" Abby offered. "Okay, then one of us has to ask the other out pretty soon. Do we need to flip for the honors?"

McGee did not consider himself a chauvinist. He did not consider himself out of synch with the times and the rights of women, but he felt (particularly in this instance) that he should take the lead. If they were going to make anything of their time together this go around, he wanted to feel like more than just a passive passenger along for the ride.

"No, I plan to ask you as soon as I'm back on just my two feet," McGee asserted. "I already have an idea in mind, I just need to work on the arrangements."

"Ooo, arrangements," Abby repeated. "Sounds intriguing. Okay, I'll eagerly await your offer—just don't take too long _arranging_ or I might get impatient and ask you first."

McGee smirked at the captivating sound of her voice and the certainty that she would have no idea what he had planned until the day for the date arrived. He made a mental note to check the long range forecast that upcoming evenings so that he could start the ball rolling.

"I'll place my faith in your fortitude," he said.

"Is it always going to be like this?" she wondered, most of the mirth gone from here voice. "The office cloak and dagger routine, I mean? I'm just wondering if this is going to become the new normal. I've never lived under restrictions before. It feels weird and a bit… naughty."

Brilliant scientist and altruist she might be, but reliable undercover operative was not going to be added to her resume anytime soon. For Gibbs, she might play a temporary role to help out in a pinch on a case, but in her own life she was out of her depth being anything other than an extrovert who lived out loud. When she had said the word naughty, it came forth in a sea of uncertainty that bobbed between waves of titillation and guilt.

"You've spent way too many years working to Tony," McGee said as the man himself entered the room while carrying his camera and an evidence bag with broken bits of clear and colored plastic.

"Who are you talking to?" the senior field agent demanded as he stood in front of McGee's desk. "Who's worked with me too long?"

"Abby," McGee answered flatly then returned to the phone with his voice taking on a less perturbed tone. "I got kicked out of the evidence garage so I'm at my desk for the rest of the day. Call if you need me to do anything from here."

He then hung up and kept his eyes on his desk as Tony drifted back to his own area. The senior agent ejected the memory card from the camera and began looking at the crime scene shots. While McGee was curious what the case entailed (the scant amount of evidence unloaded downstairs indicated there was no car bomb). He was about to ask Tony for a rundown when Gibbs entered the room.

"Tony, get that evidence down to the lab," Gibbs said. "Give it to one of the assistants—not Abby. Vance wants them to earn their paychecks."

"She's actually heading out soon for lunch with Larry, Boss," McGee offered helpfully. "The other two should be available to work on the evidence."

Gibbs did not bother to look at him in acknowledgement of the information. He merely kept walking and spoke flatly.

"McGee, with me," Gibbs said. "Now."

He continued across the room toward the elevator. McGee sighed and reached for his crutches. Tony watched him pass by and muttered the word "McHopAlong." McGee kept his eyes forward and followed Gibbs. Once inside the car, it was predictably permitted to move several feet downward before Gibbs flipped the switch locking the elevator in place. McGee looked at Gibbs questioningly.

"How'd you get into the garage, McGee?" Gibbs asked severely.

McGee blinked. If anyone was going to lecture him about his movements, he thought it would have been Abby. However, thus far she had abided by his wishes and hadn't even mentioned his injury since Sunday morning.

"I took the elevator," McGee replied. "Boss, I used the crutches. Honestly, the cut isn't a big deal at all."

Gibbs seethed as he stepped in close and stared hard into his agent's face. McGee grew rigid and leaned back slightly.

"I don't give a damn about your stitches," Gibbs said in a low, harsh tone. "I want to know how you got into a restricted area when your clearance to be there is suspended."

McGee blinked then dropped his chin guiltily. It never occurred to him not to bypass the security network and restore his access to the evidence garage. All field agents had it. Granted, to get it one needed a G-1835 signed by his supervisor acknowledging that the individual was entitled to that access. McGee already had authorization on file from his first days at the Navy Yard; his iris pattern had simply been locked out of the system due to more than 30 days of inactivity. He had simply reactivated himself.

"I reinstated my access this morning," McGee said simply.

"You did?" Gibbs asked. "Did anyone other than you authorize that?"

"No," McGee replied.

"Are you moonlighting with the cyber security unit?" Gibbs asked.

"No," McGee sighed. "Boss, I hold upper level access and privileges in a variety of our internal systems. As for the other systems we have, those are… not hard to open… if you know how... which I do."

He bowed his head and waited for the slap which never came. Instead, Gibbs stepped back and shook his head.

"MTAC?" Gibbs asked.

"No," McGee gaped at the question and shook his head vigorously.

"Couldn't get into that one?" Gibbs scoffed.

"No," McGee said. "I mean, I could. I just didn't try. MTAC access is different than the evidence garage so I didn't think I should… I know they're both secure areas, but I am an agent. All agents have access to the evidence garage and locker. There's no reason I shouldn't still have those rights. I had it even when I was a probationary agent."

Gibbs snorted and shook his head as he began to reach for the switch to turn the elevator on again. As he did, McGee's anger got the better of him and he muttered under his breath.

"I thought you trusted me and wanted me back on the team," he said sourly.

He knew he should have held his tongue. First, he wasn't normally argumentative by nature. He was a listener and an analyst. He believed in fighting the good fight and standing up for what he believed in. It wasn't in him to be the force of nature that Gibbs was, but despite Tony's linger nickname, McGee knew he was no longer a probie. He had more than a decade as a field agent. He had a lot of cases behind him; he had helped save lives, solve crimes, and foil terrorist plots. He'd killed men in the process and nearly been killed himself. A little acknowledgement of his skills and a modicum of respect for his accomplishments didn't seem to be asking too much.

Gibbs, however, didn't suffer petulant backtalk well. He pulled his hand back from the switch and turned his head slowly to look at McGee again.

"What did you say?" he asked.

McGee swallowed and clenched his hands to keep them from shaking as he realized the line he crossed.

"Nothing worth repeating," McGee said tightly.

"Do you get that you nearly died?" Gibbs asked hitting him hard with his icy blue stare.

"That was months ago," McGee said startled by the vehemence in the man's voice. "I've been cleared to return to work."

"To your desk!" Gibbs corrected him. "The evidence garage, MTAC, the forensics lab—none of those is where your desk is. You're only preliminarily cleared to be here, McGee. You're telling me you think you're fit for duty again?"

"Yes," he said firmly. "I am."

"Really, what happened last week?" Gibbs asked. "The stairs nearly did you in."

McGee glared at him and felt a flare of betrayal in his chest at Abby for telling on him. Some of that must have been evident in his face because Gibbs shook his head.

"There are cameras in the stairways and in the lab," Gibbs reminded him. "The techs from the garage reported that Abby had to walk you out of here. I had them pull up the recordings for me to see it myself. You had no business being back here."

McGee wanted to argue that he felt fine—and he did, mostly. Later in the day his head would get a little fuzzy, but that effect grew milder with each day. However, he didn't feel that saying so would have any impact. In fact, he felt completely powerless. It reminded him greatly of arguing with his father, the man who would never listen to any voice but his own. Over the years, McGee had realized the many and important yet subtle differences between Gibbs and his father. In the end, it all amounted to the same thing: Gibbs treated him with respect. Certainly there was a hierarchy and McGee was the subordinate, but he normally treated him as equal to any other agent. Pleasing him was hard but always worth it in the end. Being scolded like he was some brat probie not yet out of the Academy was insulting.

"Do you want me to leave?" McGee asked with a hint of acid mixed with offense in his voice.

"I want you to be honest and use that damn head of yours!" Gibbs said.

"I haven't lied," McGee insisted, taken aback by the accusation. "You asked how I got my access back and I told you."

"What about Saturday night?" he asked. "How smart was it to even think you didn't need to see a doctor? If I can't trust you to take care of yourself, how can I trust you to have your team's back in the field?"

"I would never…," MCGee started to insist as his eyes flared angrily. "Boss, rubbing alcohol and butterfly stitches would have done the same thing the ER doctor did for me. And that has nothing to do with whether how I would react in the field. Boss, I would never knowingly do anything compromise anyone on the team."

Gibbs snorted at the word ' _knowingly_.' That, the team leader thought, was the problem.

"Do you listen to your doctors at all?" Gibbs asked harshly. "One year, McGee. It's one year before they'll call you fully recovered. You're not even at the four month mark yet. You're not ready to be in the field. Hell, you can't even go to the dentist without taking medication first."

McGee blinked and looked at him with surprise. Between the bullet injury and the surgeries needed to repair the damage, his various systems were rebounding still from the shock of it all. For months, heavy drugs were needed to support and augment his immune system because it couldn't handle the job of keeping him infection free on its own.

"Any infection during the next year can result in…?" Gibbs prompted.

He looked hard at McGee and forced him to say the answer.

"Bacterial Endocarditis," McGee replied sullenly.

He got this same lecture from his doctors in Dallas and Baltimore. He had a list of websites with information on it and a stack of discharge papers all boldly warning him against it.

"Which is what again?" Gibbs prompted although his expression stated he already knew.

"Bacteria circulating in the bloodstream doesn't normally stick to the inside of the heart, but rough edges surrounding areas of surgical intervention can create defects," he replied in a rote fashion. "The bacteria can lodge in the rough sections and create turbulent blood flow which can result in infection that damages the heart valves, the muscle and surrounding tissues, but it's highly unlikely that it would happen from a cut on my foot."

Gibbs continued to look at him sternly.

"Yeah, I'm familiar with you and highly unlikely, like the way that bullet hit you in May," Gibbs remarked. "What if the unlikely happens again?"

"I know, my career would be finished," McGee said refusing to meet his eyes.

"Your career?" Gibbs interrupted. "Your life, Tim. You died from it."

McGee hung his head.

"Is that why Abby called you on Saturday?" McGee asked. "Did you tell her to watch me?"

"She's not the special agent on my team," Gibbs said sternly. "I didn't send her to babysit. Should I?"

McGee shook his head. He knew his initial resistance to going to the ER on the weekend was simple pigheadedness on his part. He considered himself lucky that Abby knew the dangers an infection could cause for him and that she didn't back down when he initially refused. He was grateful she insisted he get checked out. In hindsight, calling Gibbs had been a predictable move for her and the right one at that—it was what he would have done if their places were reversed.

"What do you want me to do now?" McGee asked. He refused to meet Gibbs' eyes.

"Go to your desk," he said flatly as he turned the elevator on again.

The car lights turned on and the doors opened to the third floor once again. McGee made his way to his desk and sat down sullenly. Gibbs followed him and turned his gaze back to his computer as his mind began churning.

It wasn't the backchat he received that bothered Gibbs. He didn't like it, but when you pushed a guy's buttons you had to expect some reaction. No, what bugged him was the type of reaction he got. Grumpy and peevish were the ways McGee might react to Tony—not his boss.

The Tony/McGee sibling style relationship was a power struggle with the older brother pulling strings, stacking the deck or using his opportunistic radar to get to the finish line first—he needed that because his personality craved the limelight. It was a combination that often led to success. The younger brother was more pensive, a deeper thinker, and the rule follower. He was the subordinate who, when the inspiration struck, could slingshot past Tony at the speed of a wireless connection and pull randomly scattered bits of seemingly nothing together into a stunning picture of the truth the team sought. They sniped at each other; they verbally jabbed at each other; they plotted and sulked like children. They brought out the best and the worst in each other, just like family was supposed to do.

Gibbs wasn't supposed to be a part of that tango—not as judge or referee. He hovered around the edges, keeping an eye on their games and competitions, making sure nothing of value got missed in the attempts to best each other and that nothing went too far over the edge of acceptable. Tony, with his charming but narcissistic personality, tap danced on that edge fairly often. Gibbs did let him cross over it occasionally, too—the senior field agent's well-masked compassion then usually took over and made the necessary amends when that happened. Gibbs never had to tell him to do so. It was part of Tony's learning process that he had to take the thoughts and feelings of others into account. McGee's lessons were more on the side of learning to avoid the jabs and barbs as much as learning to deflect those that hit and return a few of his own.

What Gibbs heard and saw in the few short minutes in the elevator taught him something as well—something he had suspected since he read the preliminary psych eval on McGee. That small knot in his gut only grew with the next interactions with his agent. Gibbs had hoped like hell he was wrong about it, but now he was all but convinced he was right. It didn't shock him, but it worried him. Deeply.

As Gibbs considered his course of action, he heard Tony rambling about some sort of greeting he either witnessed or anticipated involving Jimmy Palmer. McGee did not appear to be listening any better than Gibbs was.

"We may be in a new liberal era," Tony announced. "Don't ask/Don't tell may be gone, but Don't ask/Don't show still exists in this corner. Keep your Palmer petting out of my field of view. After all, the Autopsy Gremlin is still a co-worker and Rule 12 is still in full effect, right, Boss?"

Gibbs looked at his senior field agent, attempting to get some sort of rise out of his teammate to no avail.

"Already had a chat about the rules with him, DiNozzo," Gibbs said looking at his computer screen. "Where are we on tire marks found at the scene?"

McGee listened in a detached way. He had nearly no idea what case they were working, what happened to summon them to the scene, or what he might do to assist. It felt, he realized, a lot like when he was first brought to the Navy Yard to work with Gibbs.

He had been flat out afraid of Gibbs back then and a bit intimidated by Tony. He was wary of Kate—she seemed to side with Tony when he felt the urge to target McGee; he had also wondered if the two agents had something going on the side. He looked at her former desk and absentmindedly rubbed the starburst shaped scar high on the side of his ribcage where the bullet entered his body. Kate hadn't been so lucky. She received a head shot that left her no chance for survival.

The memory of that fire fight when she died, when he was pinned near the car with his transmitter and the rest of the time was on the roof, brought a sour taste to his mouth. He tried to force the memory, seeing the body bag loaded into the van and later seeing his teammate's body in the drawer in autopsy, back into the recesses of his mind and focus instead on his computer. However, his hard drive was in stall mode as it continued to run his background defragging and test queries from his earlier maintenance routine. As he wrestled with his memories and the frustration of his computer, his father's voice echoed far off in his mind.

" _What did you miss?" the Admiral asked in his demanding tone. "You need to get your act together, and finish what you started."_

McGee blinked hard as a shiver ran down his spine and his heart thumped harder in his chest. He had zoned out from the room briefly and only became aware that he had when Gibbs barked.

"Hey!" he shouted, startling startled McGee back into reality. "McGee, did you hear me?"

"Uh, just now?" he asked then shook his head as he chastised himself for letting his thoughts stray. "What did you say?"

"DiNozzo," Gibbs growled and grabbed his coffee off his desk as he stalked out of the room toward the back elevator.

He headed down the hall as his gut sent him the final signal that he had waited for and, on some level, dreaded. Once he was out of sight and earshot, he pulled out his phone. He scrolled through his contact list and found the one he needed then initiated the call.

The woman who answered did so in a crisp and alert voice.

"Dr. Rachel Cranston speaking," she said then looked at the caller ID on her desk phone as an afterthought and blinked. "Gibbs?"

"Yeah," Gibbs answered. "Doc, it's time for you to pay that visit."

Back in the squad room, oblivious to the shrink summons, McGee looked to the senior field agent for instruction. Tony shook his head disappointedly as he approached McGee's desk then handed him a case file.

"I emailed you the pictures of the tire marks at the scene," Tony explained. "ID the tires then run down all the cars with them and cross reference those with the witness descriptions. No more daydreaming, Probie. Vacation's over."

McGee gave him a sharp look and opened the email with the JPEG files. A make, model and plate search from scattered eyewitness accounts and an iffy tread print was hardly an impossible task. He opened each photo then lifted his disbelieving eyes to look at Tony.

"There are three different tire prints here," McGee said. "How am I supposed to know which one is the car you're looking for?"

Tony grinned superiorly as his phone chirped signaling he had received a message. He cut his eyes toward it.

"It's called _in-ves-ti-ga-tion—_ maybe you've heard of it," he said. "They don't just give the title of Special Agent away in cereal boxes. Well, they didn't back when I was hired anyway. We had something called…"

"A gumball machine?" McGee offered while giving his teammate his flattest smile.

"Gumball?" Tony grimaced. "That's cute. See, I was going to help you, but since you're all McSmartAlec, I'll leave you to it. Tick, tock. I need those answers by the time I get back in 15 minutes."

"Where are you going?" McGee asked as he began scanning the report and looking at the varying tire patterns to begin writing his computer query.

"I've been on the job since 5 a.m.," Tony said as he headed for the main elevator. "I've earned a coffee break."

"A coffee break?" McGee grumbled. "You just got a text message. You might be going for coffee, but you're heading out to do something else as well. If it's got to do with the case, I'm working on it now, too, Tony. You can tell me what's going on. It might even help me with my search."

Tony paused the smiled painfully as his face scrunched up briefly only to be followed by a wide, beaming smile. McGee rolled his eyes and turned his back on the man.

"This is something else," Tony said evasively, tucking his phone into his pocket. "It's business related just not this specific case."

"Business related?" McGee repeated doubtfully.

"It's work-lite… work'ish, if you will," Tony explained.

"Work'ish isn't a word," McGee pointed out sharply.

"Okay, then personal—that's a word," Tony countered. "Or none of your business. That's three words."

"Four," McGee corrected him snidely.

"Got four more for you," Tony warned. "Stay out of it."

McGee scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"It's all code for you're going to talk to Palmer about something that has nothing to do with the work you're supposed to be doing," he said sourly. "Gotcha."

The tone stung Tony as his face reddened from being so swiftly busted, but he admired the accuracy of the analysis—not that he would tell that to McGee. Instead, he shook his head and walked away. McGee's mood was feisty and not the friendly kind. Normally, Tony would spend part of the morning picking at him, throwing wads of paper at his desk trying to get a tension breaking rise out of him, but Gibbs was in a foul mood. Tony wasn't sure why, but suspected it had something to do with the Director mentioning that Gibbs hadn't made his appointment with Rachel Cranston yet but was expected to do so soon. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what that meant.

"I am going to take care of a personal matter," Tony called over his shoulder. "That means you're alone up here for a few minutes. Now, I want you to behave, Timmy. If you get your homework done before Dad gets back maybe I'll take you out for ice cream later."

McGee scoffed as he shook his head and tuned Tony out completely. The older agent hung back and watched his partner begin tapping the keys as data began whizzing across the screen as the search initiated. He wasn't sure why he was being called to autopsy, but Palmer's text message caught his attention: _Come alone. RE: McGee._

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** _More to come…_


	27. Chapter 27

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Autopsy Suite_**

The sterile room was quiet as Tony entered following his summons. Palmer was there with something ooey and gooey on a tray that did not look like anything that belonged outside of a body. Tony, no stranger to the messes that could end up in the autopsy suite, averted his eyes all the same.

"Jimbo," he sauntered into the room. "What's up?"

Palmer looked up from his dissection and smiled as he looked carefully behind Tony to ensure he was alone.

"That's what I was going to ask you," he nodded. "What's the plan?"

Tony looked at him with a blank expression. He shook his head and shrugged.

"What plan?" Tony wondered.

"McGee's officially back now," he beamed. "You're planning something, right? I know Dr. Mallard said not to go overboard with the welcome home celebrations, but that doesn't mean we aren't taking him out, right? Something low key, but a bunch of us there all the same. So what's the plan?"

Tony paused. He had taken Ducky's advice to heart in that he did not make a big deal about seeing his McPartner again. He felt that just giving him a little ribbing as if nothing had happened was enough. It wasn't emphasizing that the guy had been gone all summer. It wasn't putting any pressure on McGee by reminding him that he had lost so much time. Slow and steady and act like it never happened seemed to be working just fine for Tony—and he said so.

Palmer did not agree. He grimaced with expression of uncertainty.

"Well, that might be working for someone who is in denial, but I don't think it's such a good idea for people whose good friend is trying to readjust to his old life," Palmer said taking a questioning and almost scolding tone. "Tony, when Dr. Mallard said don't go overboard, I think he just meant for you not to… you know, do what you do when you're bored upstairs, the picking on McGee and the targeting him for your jokes constantly. You've been kind of on your own so I think he was worried you'd go over the top too soon. Not that you don't have any self-control, but…"

"Hey, I have plenty of control," Tony scoffed. "What's the matter with you? I know what I'm doing. McGee's still banished to his desk for a while. When he's ready to be part of the team again, everything will be fine. No reason to take him out and welcome him back when he's not really back for real yet. Besides, he's not ready to be treated like a real grown up again. When Gibbs says Timmy's a real boy again and we can take the training wheels off, then we'll do something."

Palmer stared at his compatriot and shook his head slowly. He knew how scared Tony had been before they knew if McGee would survive. He had resisted going to visit his friend in the hospital. When he did go, every time he returned he was sullen and moody. Palmer knew it was hard seeing someone you cared about laid low by a nearly fatal blow; he felt similarly after seeing McGee and he wasn't nearly as close to him as Tony was. Watching his partner struggle and suffer when there was seemingly nothing Tony could do had obviously made him feel helpless, useless and frustrated. What Palmer was hearing from the agent now sounded more like the vestiges of guilt than confidence all would be well.

"I really think you need to reconsider," Palmer insisted. "Tony, sometimes when everyone pretends everything is fine and normal but it's not, that's when the most damage can be done. Ignoring a problem doesn't make it go away. I think Tim needs us now, maybe even more than he did when he was in the hospital. I know it can't hurt to let him know we're all happy to see him."

Tony scoffed and shook his head.

"McGee's fine," he said as he started to walk out of the room. "Fatherhood has made you soft, Jimmy. You worry too much."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Gibbs Home_**

The agent dropped the empty containers from his takeout dinner in the trash. He was prepared to head to the basement to work on his latest project when there was a knock on the front door followed by the sound it of opening hesitantly.

"Hello?" Cranston's voice called into the dwelling.

"Making house calls, Doc?" Gibbs remarked as she entered his living room. "Guess all those health care changes are impacting everyone."

"Yeah, my schedule is the least of my worries right now," the psychiatrist said. "You were supposed to call me."

"I did the other day," he said. "We talked. I said I wanted you to sit with McGee and see what's going on with him."

She nodded as she walked into the room with a puzzled expression.

"Yes, you called me about Special Agent McGee," Cranston said. "I meant that you and I were supposed to set up an appointment for the two of us to talk. You're long overdue for your session; I finished up with the rest of the team weeks ago."

"Not McGee," Gibbs noted.

"He will begin his formal psychological evaluation the week after next," she said.

"Why the wait?" Gibbs asked. "You've got the time to come here. Why aren't you meeting with him instead?"

Cranston noted the edge in his voice and made a mental note of it.

"Are you concerned that Tim is a danger to himself or others right now?" she wondered.

She had had no contact with McGee since he left the hospital in Baltimore. She also would not be the one reviewing the notes and tapes from his sessions with the evaluator in Texas the following day nor would she be evaluating him. She had requested that Miles Wolf actually conduct the session. Wolf had experience with McGee following the bombing of the NCIS building and, considering that McGee was recovering from a gunshot wound, Cranston did not think it wise that she be the one talking to him about this. Talking to him about surviving a gunshot when her sister, one of his former teammates, did not survive her own would be awkward for both to them.

Not that this was Gibbs' business. He just needed to know that someone qualified would be evaluating his agent. Of course, Gibbs apparently had made his own assessment.

"He's not thinking straight—for McGee, that is a danger sign," Gibbs said testily. "I told you on the phone what's been happening."

"Yes, he disobeyed a direct order from Gibbs the Great and Powerful," she mocked. "It astounds me that the universe wasn't rent in two by that. What else? Oh yes, he stepped on some glass then, when told to see a doctor, whined and bitched like a grade schooler who didn't want to get a shot. That's actually normal behavior for someone who spent several weeks stuck in the hospital and surrounded by doctors and nurses around the clock. Frankly, I'd have been more worried if he hadn't been a brat about getting some stitches. Oh, and between us, I'm a little impressed he defied you without a really good reason to do so."

Gibbs looked at her sternly and narrowed his eyes in disbelief.

"Well, I'm not impressed by him or you if you think this isn't something for concern," Gibbs said. "You don't know McGee the way I do. Trust me. He wasn't just being a brat. He was being reckless; McGee and reckless do not go together. This wasn't a little thing. We're not talking about a paper cut. This was serious. Do you understand what could have happened, Doc? At the moment, an infection could kill him."

Cranston nodded. After Gibbs' call to her, she had read up on the specifics of the recovery timeline for McGee's injury and the areas of concern patients faced. While Gibbs was accurate that there were a lot of things which needed to be points of concern, she believed he was ratcheting up his worry too far.

"Yes, it could," she agreed sagely. "I'm not arguing that. He definitely needed to see a doctor the other day, and he no doubt knew it. Tim's a smart guy. He knows he's still in the recovery phase. I'm sure he knows going to a doctor quickly to get treatment shouldn't have ever been up for debate; however, it's not like he was attempting suicide or the injury was immediately life threatening. This wasn't a case of instant danger—he was with Abby when it happened. She assessed what was needed then took control of the situation as any good friend would and should."

"Control?" Gibb repeated. "He wasn't going to listen to her. She had to call me so I could order him to get checked out."

Cranston sighed as she spied his aggressive stance and was reminded yet again of her younger sister's first impressions of the man: always on edge for a fight. Cranston thought it wasn't an accurate description of the man once you got to know him. It was just the armor he wore to protect others and himself.

"Really, that's what you think?" she remarked. "Gibbs, you've known the two of them for years. Do you really think there was any chance she would let McGee do anything to harm himself, no matter how stubborn he was being? I'm aware of their dynamic, and I can say with absolute certainty that Abby doesn't have it in her to let him suffer physically without intervening. She only called you as a shortcut to getting him to agree to take the help he needed with the least amount of fuss. I'm ruling bravo to her for taking swift, effective action and saying jeers to you for not letting the incident go once the problem was taken care of."

Gibbs sighed and shook his head.

"I'm not letting it go because it's not fixed yet," Gibbs shot back. "That kind of behavior is not McGee. That's why you're going to talk to him."

"Yes and no," she offered. "You're right. He's not quite the Timothy McGee you know and, in your own erasable way, love. As for what I am going to do regarding him, that is not the point of this discussion. He will receive his required, formal psychological evaluation as part of his fitness for duty assessment. What comes of that will be reported to Director Vance; however, I'm not here to talk about him right now—well, not directly anyway."

"Then why are you here?" Gibbs asked. "I've told you all that I know about what's going on with him."

"I know," Cranston agreed. "Which is why I'm here: to talk about you."

Gibbs scoffed and flapped his hands in dismissal to her.

"Like hell you are," he remarked as he headed toward the basement. "The door is there if you're still on office hours. Shut it behind you when you leave, Doc."

He walked away. The stairs to the basement creaked with each footfall. Cranston took a deep breath, having expected this reaction. She began expecting it when he called her to require she see McGee. It wasn't that Gibbs had called—his summons was anticipated for weeks—it was what he said during the call and the way he said it which raised her concern. Also, there was the matter of Vance.

The agency director was an aloof but highly observant man. He didn't like what he was seeing and hearing under his roof. He didn't claim to know for certain what any of it meant, but he knew something was off in his leading team and he wanted it fixed—yesterday. While she count not accommodate the man's timetable for deliverable results, she had been doing her homework, reviewing her earlier profiles of the team and making notes on the recent information she was receiving. Although it was McGee who was at the center of the story, the man who had just departed for the basement was the one the doctor was most worried about at the moment.

With a confident nod to herself, she took a deep breath then plunged into the dimly lit stairway leading to the man's lair. As always, her eyes were briefly drawn to a section of the floor—the one where the man who took her sister's life met his own fate. Cranston usually tucked her personal feelings away when working, something that tended to be tricky when dealing with Gibbs' team due to the shared loss of the doctor's sister, but in this instance being cognizant of her own tie to them was helpful. She lost a member of her family, someone she loved dearly and still missed greatly, due to a violent crime. She knew what the grief felt like, and she knew the regrets attached to it. Even though Special Agent McGee was fortunately still alive, the fear and shock of nearly losing him had created some of the same emotional snares for the team—their leader most of all.

"Still here," Cranston said announcing herself.

"Why am I not surprised?" he mused.

"Because you're a smart man who knows I am a stubborn woman," Cranston replied as she approached the workbench. She brushed some sawdust from the surface then hopped up to take a seat on it. "What are you making now? Toothpicks for a T-Rex?"

A series of inch-round spindles, apparently freshly lathed, littered the work area and several more long boards were in the process of being shave and shaped into parts for something she could not immediately identify.

"I thought shrinks used inkblots to judge a person?" Gibb wondered as he blew some dust from his coffee mug then emptied a jar of screws onto the table. He then poured Bourbon into each.

"I don't judge," Cranston shook her head. "I observe and analyze, kind of like you do when you get a case. I'm luckier of course. Most of subjects don't end up behind bars or in a graveyard."

Gibbs shrugged. Death and destruction of lives were part of his world—had been since he joined the Marines. Not that he viewed his life as only involving those two acts, but he was mindful of how dangerous and deadly the world could be. The chaos of the planet got messy and personal for a lot of people. As a Marine and later as a Special Agent, he looked at his job as being someone who brought order and safety whenever possible.

"I'm not going to let you shrink me," Gibbs said simply. "We both know it. You're wasting your time."

"Maybe I'm just lonely," she said. "You're such a lively conversationalist." Gibbs stared at her flatly. "Not buying that one, huh? Okay, I'm desperately in need of validation, and I know that if I can just say the right thing, I'll get you to give me one of those rare pats on the head; then I'll feel accomplish and like I can change the world."

Gibbs scoffed and grabbed some sandpaper. He turned his back to her and moved toward his mysterious pile of sticks.

"I'm worried about you—shrink or not," she said finally. "I know you're worried about McGee. It's good that you pay attention and know your team so well that you spotted some red flags. Not that your vigilance surprises me. These agents are your family, your surrogate children. I know you don't like to admit that, but it's true."

Gibbs clenched his jaw as he began smoothing one of the dowels on the table. His shoulders grew visibly tense as he continued to work the wood.

"They're not my kids," he said firmly. "They're all adults and have their own families."

"Yes, and those families do include you," the therapist insisted. "It's not an insult to your biological child to have taken other people into your heart, Gibbs. It's actually a credit to you that you could do so after losing your daughter. Of course, it took you a while to be able to do that—or maybe it just took until you met the right people, your people. I wonder sometimes if it's hard for you to know that you've had Tony and Tim in your life longer than you had Kelly. The love you feel for your work family is undoubted quite different than what you feel for her, but that doesn't make it any less strong or any less real. Tim must be around the same age Kelly would be. What's their age difference? Six years?"

"Five and a half," Gibbs said tensely. "Doc, I've worked with a lot of agents during my career. Longevity doesn't mean you…"

"Adopt them?" she offered. "No, it doesn't. But you have with these people. Just because they aren't children doesn't mean they aren't your kids, Gibbs. Okay, I'll grant you, Tony's more like that younger brother you probably never wanted in many ways, but you've still helped raise him. I know that losing one of them is a nightmare for you."

Gibbs continued to shave the wood, slowly giving it delicate details that would shape it eventually from a plain dowel into a decorative spindle. He snorted at her offering. Losing any agent was a tragedy. Whether it was a contemporary like Chris Pacci, his mentor Mike Franks, or even his own agent, Cranston's baby sister Kate, no loss was ever easy to take. All had ramifications far beyond the initial loss. Sometimes, the damage was irreparable—like losing Franks to a serial killer months before his disease would have claimed him and thereby cutting short the time his daughter-in-law and granddaughter could have with him. Losing Kate had been devastating and left a mark on the team that would never fully fade, but it opened the door to bring Ziva to them. As for Pacci, if not for his murder, Gibbs would might not have seen how much McGee had grown as an agent and never ended up on Gibbs' radar as a potential addition to the team.

He had thought about that a lot since May, the map that led his team to being who they were in the present day. There were moments that startled him—shocking for how unexpected they were or simply amazing for how easily something little could have gone in another direction and changed their fates drastically. McGee was a prime example of that. One man's death opened a door that brought him to a new life.

"They were just going to leave McGee on his own in Norfolk," Gibbs remarked as he thought back distantly to the transfer he arranged to bring the then probationary agent to his team. "His supervisor was just going to give him a year of part-time field work then send him to the cybercrimes division that was just starting up."

"Director Vance mentioned that," Cranston said. "He thinks McGee might have been running that unit by now if he had gone there."

Gibbs huffed his agreement. Director Morrow thought Gibbs was nuts to want McGee to become a fulltime field agent on his team. There had been moments after the transfer that Gibbs had considered his sanity as well. Although, looking back, it was easy now to overlook those missteps as simple training moments when he considered the agent McGee had become. The techno-geek could now dissect a crime scene to determine what happened; he could gather evidence and find the things many investigators might overlook; he could interrogate a suspect and (occasionally) get a confession; he could secure a scene and subdue a subject. He was everything a field agent needed to be. Proof of that was evident in the way he conducted himself in Afghanistan, right up until what was nearly his very end.

"I'm the one who sent him to Afghanistan," Gibbs confessed. "He thought Vance picked him to go, but he didn't. When Stan Burley called asking for help on a computer related case, Vance wanted to send someone from the cyber unit. Stan didn't need anyone to talk to suspects or dig for physical evidence. He just needed a computer guy to look at a program or a machine or something."

He paused as a heavy silence filled the room. Cranston nodded slowly. This was the missing piece to the story for her. She knew Gibbs worried for his agent, but the level of it was not commiserate with the current state of affairs. The guilt in his words opened a whole new story for her.

"Why did you volunteer McGee?" she asked. "Nothing for him to do closer to home? If they only needed a tech guy, why did you send someone you've turned into a fairly strong investigator?"

Gibbs dropped his sandpaper and returned to the tool bench. He lifted his mug and sipped from it as he leaned on the bench.

"It was a test," he said. "I wanted to see how he would do without his team in an unfamiliar place. He's worked overseas before, but someone from the team was always with him. I wanted him to see what he could do without his normal backup; I wanted to know how he would conduct himself. I thought it would be a good learning experience for him."

His voice grew quieter as the gravity of that decision hit him again. He did not mention that he also thought it would be good for Burley to have to deal with someone like McGee, who could be skittish about being in a forward area that was on high alert at all times but who could quickly forget his fears and become engrossed in the techno side of the assignment. Like a good gunny, the lessons never stopped for his team, even when they rotated off his team.

"You blame yourself for him getting hurt," Cranston said slowly. "You think you put him in harm's way because the reason wasn't justifiable."

"It wasn't," Gibbs shook his head. "Vance thought it was a bad idea to send McGee, but I insisted. I reminded him that he assigned DiNozzo as an agent afloat a few years back for several months. I said this was the same thing. I said the experience would make him a better agent. I was certain."

Doubt from second-guessing saturated his words and guilt hung heavily on his shoulders.

"Why not send McGee to a boat instead if you were looking to give him a different kind of experience?" she asked.

"Can't," Gibbs smirked as he shook his head. "McGee can't be assigned to a boat long term. He's got something that sounds like alphabet soup, but basically it means he always gets seasick. "

"BPPV," the doctor snapped her fingers in recollection as nodded while remembering that detail from his records. "Benign paroxysmal positional vertigo caused by crystals of calcium carbonate in the utricle of the ear. Most people can take medication to mitigate that."

"He's allergic to it," Gibbs said. "He can take motion sickness meds to lessen the condition, but nothing can cure it."

"Amazing to me the NCIS hired him knowing he couldn't get on a boat," she chuckled lightly. "I guess his education helped them overlook that."

"And his name," Gibbs noted sourly. "McGee might not have always been on solid terms with his father, and he never used the man's name to gain any advantage, but when the Navy discovers during your background check that your father is four-star admiral, they're willing to overlook a few things. He's earned everything he's gotten, but even he wouldn't deny that his last name got someone to at least look at his application."

Cranston nodded, noting the slight sneer on the man's face at even the passing reference to McGee's late father. She was unsurprised by this. She knew just enough about McGee's family to know that Gibbs would not be pleased with Admiral McGee's chosen parenting style. For as gruff and demanding as the team leader could be, once someone got close to him, he was more like a momma bear than a grizzly bear. His midnight flight to Germany to sit vigil by his agent's bedside when there was nothing he could do but be present was evidence enough of that.

"So by sending him overseas alone, were you teaching Agent McGee a lesson as punishment for something or were you doing it to encourage him?" Cranston wondered. "What made you think he needed a wakeup call or a boost to his confidence?"

Gibbs thought back to what was going in April that prompted him to make the choice to send his agent when he hadn't been specifically requested. He knew part of it was due to the moping. Gibbs was tired of seeing him sit at his desk with that dejected look. He was sick of hearing the sighs and seeing the defeated expression on his face. Tony nailed the reason swiftly: Delilah. There had been a breakup. Not that Gibbs was deeply interested in the after-hours lives of his agents, but someone as smart as McGee should have seen the end coming. The woman had taken a two year posting on the other side of the globe.

So Gibbs thought he would either boost his agent's confidence or at least get him to snap out of it by sending him someplace else for a while to get his head straight and figure out what he wanted. And, yes, there was the slight side benefit of not having McGee in front of him, moping and sighing like some sad puppy for a few days and grating on Gibbs' nerves. However, in answer to her question, Gibbs simply shrugged. What he wanted and what happened never matched up so his intentions were irrelevant. Cranston read that on his face as he sighed and stared into the distance.

"You had no way of knowing what would happen while he was in Afghanistan," she said. "I know you know that, but I think it's important for you to hear someone say it out loud."

"It's a warzone," Gibbs said. "It's a dangerous place. Bad things happen in dangerous places."

"Bad things happen in perfectly lovely places as well," she countered. "A reasonable percentage of your cases prove that all the time. Tell me this: If the case overseas needed someone who was a crime hound, would you have sent Tony?"

"No," Gibbs said instantly as he shook his head.

"Out of fear for his safety?" she wondered.

"No, he's done duty in a war zone before," Gibbs said. "There were plenty of agents available to help Stan as an investigator. I needed Tony here."

As the words tumbled over his lips, he hung his head. His head hurt as the knots in his neck and the ones in his stomach began competing for which was stronger and tenser. Rather than referee, he sipped his Bourbon and hoped it could settle the bout.

"And that's the other problem, I think," Cranston nodded. "Guilt is a horribly erosive thing. We make judgments all day long. Take the short cut; take the long way back; run the yellow light; wait for it to go green again. We only think about those little choices a second time when something out of the norm happens. That's when the dreaded 'if only' comes calling. You've been second-guessing your decision to send Tim overseas where he might not have been needed because you don't think you'd have done that to anyone else on your team because of their value. Ergo, you think you decided Tim had no value."

Gibbs shook his head. That was not what he did; although, deep in his gut that was what it had started to feel like.

"He has value," Gibbs said.

"I know," the doctor nodded. "You know it. Here's some of that psycho-babble you don't want to hear from me but needs to be said all the same: You're beating yourself up because you feel guilty as all hell for putting him in the line of fire. Now, as penance, you're overcompensating with trying to protect him from further harm, either that which he might inadvertently do to himself or that the world might do to him. You're also trying to protect him from what you see as the root cause of him nearly dying: You."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes at her with a disbelieving look.

"The only threat I am to him is when he starts babbling about computer stuff that wastes my time," Gibbs replied succinctly.

Cranston shook her head firmly.

"You've created a hostile atmosphere between the two of you whenever he is in the office around you," she said. "You're doing it to push him away, or, in your mind, get him some place safe, someplace away from you. You tried to block his first chance to return by telling your director you didn't agree with letting McGee comeback to help another agency."

Gibbs scoffed. The record proved he was right in thinking that operation was a bad idea.

"Next," Cranston offered, "when he did return to the Navy Yard, you wouldn't even let him enter the base and were a little rough in you words with him. I note you did, however, return him to his family and have Dr. Mallard check on him that evening—it seems your caring side only appears when he is nowhere near the NCIS building, which makes some sense when you take into account your recent history with him in the building. I believe you were the one who found Tim after the bombing when he was impaled by some glass."

Gibbs nodded recalling the conversation with his agent and finding nothing wrong with him until he took his coat off to reveal a jagged sharp protruding from between his ribs.

"Last week, you yelled at him in the squad room when he dropped in unexpectedly," she continued.

"Against orders," Gibbs noted.

"Pointless orders that served no purpose other than you maintaining the distance your mind seemed to think would be safe," she argued. "According to what you've told me, you apparently had a completely civil and productive discussion with him at your house a few days later. Then, when he was again at the office, out came your snarling teeth. This is called a pattern, Gibbs. Perhaps you've heard of them and can recognize this one."

Gibbs shook his head then sipped from his glass again. He rolled his eyes then dribbled more Bourbon in his glass.

"You're not mad at him," Cranston assessed. "You were scared for him, scared of losing him and afraid it was your fault. Now, you're mad at someone else, and you're taking it out on Agent McGee."

"I am?" Gibbs questioned. "See, this is why I don't place a lot of faith in your voodoo. You think I'm not mad at my agent, the one who isn't following my orders or listening to his doctors and is putting his life and career in jeopardy by doing so, but you think I'm mad at someone else. Enlighten me, Doc. Who?"

She smiled confidently as she lifted her glass.

"Yourself," she replied.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _New Jersey Avenue, NW_**

The blistering temperatures had returned as the end of the week arrived. Tempers in the office had cooled somewhat. The team finished with the case at hand—a hit and run to end a bad break up had gone excessively awry. The driver, a recently divorced and out of the closet man, had found his new lover was cheating on him with a workmate. The ensuring "accident" sent the victim flying, pinballing from one car to another that was parked in the access alley way between buildings at the NRL. Upon fleeing, the driver sideswiped a dumpster that struck a building with an ill-shielded gas line. The explosion that followed wiped out much of the evidence and made identifying the body difficult, but not impossible.

Throughout, McGee kept his head down, his questions few and his statements even fewer. He did go to lunch with Abby and her assistant. He was nice enough and rather knowledgeable about rocketry. He had proved instrumental in solving the hit and run case by swiftly identifying the chemical composition that resulted in the combustion. The best news, in McGee's opinion, was that Abby seemed neither creeped out by nor wary of her assistant.

In the squad room, quiet was the prevailing atmosphere. Gibbs growled at Tony. Bishop rattled off a lot questions. McGee did his best to stay off the radar.

Palmer noted the rather tense feeling upstairs and was even gladder he worked in autopsy. Being surrounded by death, usually violent death, was more pleasant than being around Gibbs and his agents lately. Palmer felt badly for them all. It was apparent to him that McGee's return had not been a smooth and joyous homecoming. The reason for that eluded him, and he knew it would continue to do so.

That was not a bad thing. It would give his mind something to chew on while he suffered through a Friday evening with his father-in-law. In that vein, he dropped by a store on his way home to make sure he had everything his wife requested for their company. As he turned the corner to locate the aisle where the wine was displayed, he found he was not the only one gathering supplies for his evening.

"Dr. Mallard," Palmer said upon seeing his supervisor at the top of the aisle in the wine section of the store. "You must think I'm stalking you."

"On the contrary, Jimmy," Ducky said, using the man's first name as his afterhours rules dictated. "It is I who must be stalking you."

"What?" Palmer blinked gullibly.

Ducky smirked and wagged a finger of reprimand at him.

"I was joking," he said. "Although, I did see you first. I thought you were having dinner with your in-laws this evening. Are you here for liquid fortification to help you get through time with your father-in-law?"

"In a way," Palmer grinned. "Breena asked me to pick up some wine to go with dinner. I'm grabbing takeout from Vittorio's so that she doesn't have to cook. Her father likes Italian, but he also likes to complain. So, this way, when he find's fault with the meal, it's not Breena's doing and the worst he can say for me is that I paid too much for it."

"You are growing wiser all the time," Ducky noted. "I myself am here for some vino as well. I am dining at a friend's home in Bethesda this evening. She is cooking; my offering is the wine."

Palmer nodded. He overheard that discussion while at the office today. He also knew who the doctor was dining with but kept it to himself. Palmer thought it was merely a platonic relationship, but if it was not it was hardly his place to broadcast the information—especially considering that the woman's grandson worked in the office. As the assistant medical examiner held his tongue regarding that, he peered not the street to see that precise relative parking his car then shielding his eyes against the sun as he appeared to look for someone down the street.

"Well, there's a coincidence," Palmer said absentmindedly as he watched McGee wave in greeting to someone. "I wonder what he's…"

Palmer ceased his wondering as his eyes grew wide at the view. Abby was walking toward McGee. Not that it was odd to see her talking to McGee outside the office; they were friends. Nor was it odd to see her embrace one of her friends; she did that all the time with her coworkers. What did seem unusual was for the hug to turn into a kiss—and not the brief peck on the cheek but the full lip-on-lip behavior that was more than just a friend's greeting.

"What was that?" Ducky asked turned away from the wine selection to look at his assistant.

Palmer kept his face rigid and tried not to stare over Ducky's shoulder into the street where the couple (that seemed to be the best description of them) unlocked their lips then laced their fingers together and crossed the street toward a restaurant.

"Uh, nothing," Palmer shook his head.

The guilt on his face was as evident to Ducky and as it was puzzling. He instinctively looked over his shoulder to view the street outside. He saw a moderate busy thoroughfare with pedestrians milling about the outdoor cafés and reading the menus posted on the placards outside the various eateries. Crossing the street he recognized the striking attire worn by Abby that day—a red dress adorned with white skulls outlined in black. He was turning away when he spied that she was holding the hand of her male companion. A second quick look told Ducky instantly who that was.

"Oh, I see," he muttered.

"Does that mean what I think it means?" Palmer asked. "And before you give me a platonic explanation, I should confess that I saw them kissing before they were holding hands and crossing the street."

"They are consenting adults not currently tied to another person romantically as far as I know," Ducky counseled.

"But Agent Gibbs," he began.

"Yes, Jethro has rules," Ducky dismissively. "It is not for us to say whether the rules are good or not. Nor is it our place to become involved in anyone's lives who may be breaking one of those august if not entirely noble rules."

Palmer blinked then shook his head in confusion. Ducky sighed.

"I'm saying it's none of our business so it is best to forget what you've seen," Ducky said. "I, for one, see no reason to speak of this further. I advise you to do the same, particularly in the company of anyone at the office. It is bad enough to listen to gossip. It is far worse to start and to spread it."

"You mean shut my mouth about it to Tony," Palmer nodded then sighed. "I wouldn't know what to say or why it would come up in conversation." He paused briefly as a thoughtful look washed over his face. "How long do you think that's been going on?"

Ducky sighed and shook his head.

"That would all depend on how you define the word ' _it'_ in this context," Ducky said as he chose a bottle of red. He then pat his assistant on the arm bracingly. "Have a good evening, Jimmy, and enjoy your weekend."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Bishop shutdown her computer and turned off her desk light. It was an early evening or her, as it had been most of the week. She hadn't said it out loud yet, but it appeared that the new lab techs were greatly improving the ability to move through cases—at least the routine ones that had come up recently—much more efficiently. It wasn't a comment on Abby's skill so much as it was proof that she was normally overworked and stretched too thin. It seemed that even Abby was willing to accept that finding as well since she had remarked on it to Gibbs just that afternoon as she stated she would be leaving at 5, something she had not been able to do on a Friday in several years.

Bishop was also enjoying the reprieve from the marathon days. She had been able to see her husband three evenings that week, a record since starting with NCIS. She appreciated that… to a point. Not that spending time with Jake was a bad thing. He just was trying to start discussions about subjects she wasn't interested in yet. First, he was looking at houses again, specifically houses with three and four bedrooms. Next, he mentioned that each of those houses were in communities known to have good schools, which mean the subject of children was on the horizon. She shook her head, tucking away those thoughts for another time.

"You and Jake got big plans?" Tony asked as she packed up for the night.

"No," Bishop sighed as she grabbed her bag. "For once, he's he' the one working late. I am going home to sit in the air conditioning and read."

"My, my," Tony said. "You married women lead wild lives. I'm flying solo myself tonight. Zoe is in West Virginia for the weekend harassing some sketchy dealers at a gun show. I'm thinking of dipping into my classic film vault. I'm feeling like a little 'Inherit the Wind' action if you're interested. Tell Jake to cut and run on the amicus briefs so he can join us. Free popcorn."

Bishop wrinkled her nose while declining the offer as she approached his desk. She looked at McGee's darkened space then back to Tony.

"You could call McGee and see if he wants to join you," she reminded him.

"I don't see McSnippy being interested in a Spencer Tracy night right now," Tony replied dejectedly. "I actually tried to get him to watch ' _Bad Day At Black Rock_ ' with me once. He wouldn't do it. Of course, that might be because I gave a review of it when we were prisoners in Somali a few years back. I don't think I gave the whole story away. Then again, he was unconscious on the floor for some of it so even if I did give away the best parts, he didn't hear all of it. At least, I think he was down for the count for most of that day. Can you believe that he's got this insane idea that he had it harder than I did because Saleem let me sit in a chair? I mean, come on. It's a nice spin, but don't believe the hype."

Bishop sighed then shook her head.

"When are you going to stop this?" she asked. Tony looked at her with confusion. "Who is the blasé act for? Me? I've been here with you this whole time. I know what it's been like, and I know what you went through before we knew McGee was going to make it. If this show you're doing is for McGee's sake, he's known you longer than I have. He's used to you being an ass, but this is not a charming rendition of that."

Tony offered a confused expression, and he tried to shrug off his guilty aura.

"You should not be surprised to learn I have no idea what you're talking about," he said unconvincingly.

"Tony, this is friendly advice," she said fixing him with a pointed stare. "Your best friend just got back from an extended leave after nearly dying. Stop treating him like an outsider or like someone you'd rather not see."

"What?" he scoffed. "Hey, I said welcome back the day he dropped in and poked the Gibbs dragon initially. If he wanted a surprise party or fireworks and streamers, he shouldn't have gotten shot in the ticker because surprises, you know, probably not a good idea just yet for a patient with a cardiologist on speed dial still."

Bishop folded her arms and hit him with a stern and sour expression. She was less than impressed with her coworkers. Gibbs terse attitude toward McGee was off-putting. Abby was suspiciously absent from the squad room—Bishop expected her to have dropped by a card and a hug at the very least. Now, Tony was treating their teammate like the Invisible Man.

"Would letting him know you're glad he's back be so bad?" she asked. "I know Ducky said we shouldn't go overboard with the fanfare, but he didn't say we should ignore McGee or make it seem like we don't care. Tony, this can't be easy for him. Alienating him won't help. I'm sure he noticed he's being treated differently. I'm a little worried about him. I think Gibbs is, too."

Tony shook his head. Gibbs did seem to have McGee in permanent timeout that week. Tony didn't know the specifics. He figured it was for something involving his need for crutches. His formal proficiency evaluations were coming up in a few weeks. Anything McGee did to jeopardize that was a problem.

"Probie isn't actually as needy as he looks… usually," Tony assured her. "I'm telling you he's fine. Gibbs isn't going to coddle him and neither am I. Tough love is what McGee needs."

Bishop shook her head in disagreement as she started to walk away. In her opinion, a friend was what he needed.

"Hey," Tony called to her as she walked toward the elevator, "did you have any luck locating the mysterious Mr. Scott?"

"Commander Carter Scott is unavailable until further notice," she said. "If we had an active case in which he could be called a legitimate witness, I might have been able to get the Pentagon to tell me where he is or better yet let me speak to him. For now, I can't give them any of that so I got nowhere."

Tony nodded.

"So he is a SEAL," he said as he chewed on that information. "Probie and a SEAL as childhood buddies? Nope, can't picture it. Did you tell the Pentagon that we need to talk to the commander as soon as he is available?"

"Yes," she replied. "I wouldn't hold your breath. I did find Petty Officer Renner. He's retired and gets his pension checks in Virginia Beach. He has a charter boat business. The woman who does his scheduling said he'll be back in a few days but that he's not really a fan of his time in the Navy so if we want to talk to him we're probably going to have to do more than just leave him a message. But hey, finally finding him is a start. He's half the surviving cast from that NIS report."

Tony nodded. It was technically a quarter of the cast as far as he was concerned. There was Renner, who got disciplined for a painting mess at his station that may have masked a murder scene; there was Carter Scott, the child who might have witnessed the whole thing; there was the dead man whose exhumed remains were still in Ducky's cooler; and finally there was McGee, who was right where they could find him but they weren't allowed to talk.

"Let me know when you're going to talk to Renner," Tony said as she stepped onto the elevator.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Gibbs' Basement_**

"So answer me this," Cranston continued her discussion with the reluctant supervisory agent. "What happens if we change the situation in Afghanistan that morning? What if it's one of your cyber guys in that room and not McGee when the shooting starts? How does that story end?"

Gibbs sighed as he considered the possibilities. The ending he came up with wasn't a happy one.

"Two dead Marines at the terminals still," Gibbs replied. "Add a dead computer geek beside them then most likely a couple more Marines get hit, possibly killed, as they come through the door after hearing the first shots."

"Why?" Cranston asked. "What's the difference?"

"McGee was armed," he said. "He's trained for how to behave in high-octane situation. Someone who was just a computer guy wouldn't have that. McGee fired his weapon and took out one of the shooters. It didn't do him much good, but it distracted the second shooter long enough for security forces to arrive."

Gibbs looked hard at the floor. His agent, Gibbs reminded himself, had done well in the few seconds of action that early May morning. He identified the noise that interrupted their teleconference as gunfire, pulled his service weapon, turned and fired while a hail of bullets screamed at him. He put three in the shooter who tagged him (one in the shoulder, two center mass—dead on target). There was no thinking, no hemming or hawing, no two dozen options or alternative courses of actions running through his head in those precious seconds. It was instinct developed after years of training, watching and learning. Gibbs kicked himself inwardly as he recalled, in the split second before it became obvious McGee was down with a devastating injury, that he had been proud of what he saw his agent do.

Cranston gave him a moment to let what he had said or what he might be thinking settle. She then nodded and offered him an alternative viewpoint that he probably had not considered.

"So you can choose to look at it the way that's been eating at your for months, or you can look at it this way," she suggested. "You didn't put Special Agent McGee in harm's way because you considered Tim useless or less valuable than anyone else on your team. What I see from the facts are that you sent him to a place where his technical skills were in need. While there, his other skills were unexpected called upon and in doing so, he saved a couple lives. Isn't that what you superheroes at NCIS do? Part of your job is to protect people and save lives, right? So, from where I sit, it looks and sounds to me like you sent him to do the job he was hired for and trained to do, and that's what he did."

Gibbs said nothing. He returned to his project and focused on that. No chitchat with a shrink offering him solace was going to change what he knew or how he felt. Besides, he wasn't the issue. Her job, as far as he was concerned, was to find out if his agent could return to full duty. In that vein, he had another request of her as well.

"Doc, just figure out if McGee's damaged goods or not," Gibbs said tersely. He received a raised eyebrow assessment from Cranston that he chose to ignore. "I need to know if he's ready to work in the field if he passes his physical eval. Then I need to know if he can remember something, the truth of it, from when he was a kid. I know you waved me off a molestation suspicion, but I wasn't wrong about there being something in his past. He all but told me he witnessed something. Might be a murder, Doc, and unsolved one."

"And nearly 30 years later it's an urgent matter?" she questioned him.

"No statute of limitations on murder," he replied. "And it might be still relevant today. Won't know until I pry it the truth out of McGee's memory."

Cranston met him with a frank gaze as she shook her head confident.

"You're out of luck there, Gibbs," she said firmly. "I won't help you."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** _More to come…_


	28. Chapter 28

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Old Town Alexandria_**

August was rapidly becoming a memory as the long and lovely rays of summer began to cast shadows over the moderate traffic pattern outside of D.C. McGee was pleased the month was nearly behind him. He said farewell to stitches and crutches a few weeks earlier. The dates for his psych eval, physical eval and shooting exam were also in the rearview mirror. He knew his scores for his firearms test (3rd highest score of his career), and he knew that his doctors had pronounced him fit for duty. All that remained was for Dr. Wolf to file his write up letting NCIS know that McGee was not a nutcase who would crack under the pressure of the job. Each of these added together resulted in one thing: He would be recertified as a full-time special agent again in a matter of days.

It felt good. He felt good. The only question left on his horizon that evening was where the he was going and why he was going there. Thus far, answers were few in number so he turned to his companion, the one who was actually driving him, to start his inquiry again.

"So we're going to Alexandria," McGee observed from the passenger seat of his car. "Do I get to know why yet?"

"Not yet," Abby replied.

She had essentially abducted him from the NCIS parking lot as he finished his work week. It took very little cajoling and a few veiled promises of topping their previous date (in which he brought her to the Keebler Observatory at Randolph-Macon College to have a private viewing of the heavens). This evening was one of her planning and she insisted she needed to drive. He relinquished the keys, but now 20 minutes later as they arrived in the historic city, he was still at a loss for what they were going to do.

"Why is it that I'm not driving my car again?" he asked.

"Do you know where we are going?" Abby asked. He then shook her head. "So that makes it kind of hard for you to get us there, doesn't it?"

He considered pointing out the obvious that she could simply tell him, but the determination (and mirth) in her voice and expression was fierce. It was apparent to him that continued requests to regain control of their conveyance was pointless.

"Do I get a hint?" he asked.

"No," she smiled. "You put a blindfold on me before we got to the observatory, but if I did that to you here, people would think I abducted you."

"You kind of did," he noted.

"It's not abduction if you came along willingly," Abby countered.

"Actually, the federal definition in Title 18 of the U.S. Code contains the possibility that the seizure of the person can be gained through deception, decoy or inveigling," he offered knowledgeably.

 _Memo to self_ , she thought with a smirk, _don't argue crime definitions with a federal agent_.

"Well, you're not Special Agent McGee right now," Abby side stepped the debate. "You're just Tim McGee, who is happily joining me for a surprise. Hey, was it technically kidnapping when you blindfolded me?"

"No," he said confidently.

He smirked as he answered, having wondered about legal ramifications and questions before asking her have her eyes covered during their trek to the location of their first official date. It was a calculated risk taking her to the observatory. Some might find it a dull excursion, but to McGee it was anything but boring. His grandfather taught him about the stars when he was young, and the skies had wooed the poetic and literary parts of his mind ever since. He did not know when they first arrived if Abby would find as much magic and majesty in the celestial heavens as he did and was pleasantly surprised when she had because that date was also a test.

He admitted that shamefully to himself afterward. He thought if he chose something near and dear to his heart and she balked at it or found it dull and arduous, he would know that the smooth ride of apparent contentment they were enjoying with each other was simply a flimsy summer fling. They saw each other often on weekends and after work—so much so that she was spending more nights at his apartment than at her own—but he sensed that the new/honeymoon of their liaison was about to wear off. Pulling out something uniquely geeky and completely indicative of who he was at his very core to share with her had been a chance to challenge her assertion that her feelings for him were not a passing fancy this time around. When she proclaimed their outing at the observatory was astounding and nearly left her speechless, McGee was left feeling nervous.

All indications were that she meant what she said. In the weeks since spending an evening gazing at the Helix Nebula in the Constellation Aquarius, she still gushed to him about it as though she had received a priceless gift. In her words, she felt like he had given her the entire visible universe, and she felt humbled by it.

"I can't give you the whole sky like you did for me," she said, beaming again at the memory. "So I went in the opposite direction. You went big, the marco-picture, when you planned a special date. I'm going more micro. We're getting away for the night. This is a little we-time, a little away time, a little just you and me time."

"Okay, but I don't have anything with me other than what I wore to work today," he said, spotting flaw in her plan.

"Not true," she revealed. "When I was at your place on Tuesday evening, I grabbed a few things for you and tossed them in my bag. Your stuff is in the backseat along with my bag."

McGee twisted in his seat to see her small roller board resting on the seat. He turned back to face her with a puzzled expression.

"When did you get the keys to my car to put your stuff in here?" he asked.

"I didn't," she shook her head. "I used your satellite app to remotely unlock the doors. Oh, don't get all bug-eyed. You're the one who created the program and put it on my phone after bragging what it could do. It's better than me breaking in using a slim jim."

"True," he nodded.

There was a playful insanity that radiated from Abby that he found intoxicating, but was also a mild side effect that sometimes resulted in him getting brief but undeniable headaches. The insanity part came into play when he realized that he enjoyed the pain. To him, it was a precious ache.

"Just curiously," he wondered, "did it occur to you that were you breaking the law at all when you took my stuff and then gained access to my car? As a Federal Law Enforcement Agent, I feel compelled to ask."

"You do feel that compulsion, don't you?" she grinned. "I love that about you. So, does this mean we're going to play interrogation? Okay, so here's my answer: No, because I wasn't committing any crimes. I had permission to do both."

"I gave you permission?" he asked.

"In a way," Abby nodded.

"What way?" he demanded then pulled himself back and reminded himself that this was not a real interrogation and he wasn't actually mad so much as surprised. "I mean, what made you think that?"

Abby smirked as she watched him mentally try to fold up the agent's persona and put it away for the evening. She had seen him interrogate suspects before. His style was not usually the brow beating, physically ominous presence that Tony or Gibbs brought to the room, but McGee could be intimidating when it suited him. She doubted he would ever show that side to her, but also thought she might like to see a hint of it… just for fun… once or twice.

"I told you I made plans for us tonight," Abby stated succinctly. "I told you I needed to take care of a few things to arrange it and you said…"

"Do whatever you need," he recalled as he nodded. "I have to watch my language around you."

She asked then laughed generously as he held his hands up in surrender.

"Just sit back and relax," she said. "We're nearly there. I booked us a room and that's all you need to know."

That room ended up being at the historic Morrison House. They checked in, with Abby sharing a discrete whisper of thanks with the desk staff, one of whom winked and called her _Abs_ signaling they knew each other. Their room was nicer than most hotels McGee ever got to stay in. The NCIS budget was not known for covering luxurious accommodations, and growing up on naval bases, even with a father who was an officer, plush was never word used to describe his surroundings.

"So, what do you think?" Abby asked with a hopeful grin as she threw her arms wide gesturing to the room. "It's kind of stuffy, but that also makes it kind of quirky in its own opulent way."

The room was large and held a king sized bed and antique furniture. From the mere weight of the heavy oak door on the room and the fact that the sounds from the busy street below were stopped dead in their tracks, it was apparent that there would be no external disturbances.

"It's not that far from home, and they allegedly make the best chocolate chip cookies in all of Virginia," Abby announced. "We should order some from room service later."

"Sure," McGee shrugged. "So, uh, what are we going to do while we're here in Alexandria? What do you have planned? Or did we come all this way to order cookies in a room where George Washington stayed?"

Abby approached him and laced her fingers through his while gazing into his eyes.

"We have a few choices," she explained. "The VGU is in town at the Marks Center tonight and tomorrow. I got us tickets. I remembered you mentioning early last spring that you wanted to go, so I called a friend who got me a pair of passes."

McGee blinked. He had forgotten all about Video Gamers United convention in the intervening months. Prior to Afghanistan, it had been one of the few things on his calendar for the summer. He grinned that even back then she had listened and remembered.

"It's your choice if you want us to go both tonight and tomorrow," she continued as she draped her arms over his shoulders. "Or we could do something else this evening. I thought maybe we might celebrate—there's a lot we should, after all. You passed your firearms test; you had your meeting with Dr. Wolf for your psych eval; and your doctors officially ruled you are physically fit for duty. Oh, and you and me and have been a _we_ for seven and a half weeks."

He grinned at that but looked at her oddly.

"Since when do you care about obtuse anniversaries?" he wondered. "You're the one who always says…"

She pressed her finger over his lips to stop his objection.

"I care about them when they're important," Abby answered. "We can also have an early celebration for you getting your field agent status reinstated. You said it's just a matter of paperwork making it to Vance's desk, right? All of that together means that you are fully recovered, which brings me to the last thing we could be celebrating."

She grinned at him with her lips and her eyes, feasting on his continued innocent expression of non-comprehension.

"Which is what?" he asked with a shrug. "What's the last thing?"

Abby looked pointedly from him to the bed then back again while smiling hopefully.

"Oh," McGee nodded as he felt an idiotic grin pulling on the corners of his mouth. "That."

"Yeah, that," she nodded. "You got the all clear to do whatever you want. No more restrictions. So, I thought, I'd give you the choice for the evening. We can get dinner then go to the convention, or we could take tonight and do…"

"Whatever?" he asked eagerly and elicited and laugh from her that only ceased when he pressed his lips to hers.

He vaguely heard her ask him if wanted to grab dinner first. While McGee was sufficiently hungry from having missed lunch, the answer that came from his mouth was a solid and quickly spoken "No" followed by Abby freeing the buttons on his shirt.

An hour later, darkness filled the room as Abby stretched languidly under the sheets beside him. She smiled at how quickly they had gotten to the heart of the reason for their stay. She nuzzled his shoulder which prompted him to blink his eyes open then wrap his arm around her and pull her close again.

"I could go for a peanut butter sandwich right now," she murmured and received a chuckle in reply. "I could. It's on the room service menu. I saw it on the website when I did my research on this place."

"You researched hotels with peanut butter sandwiches on their room service menus?" he asked as his thoughts remained pleasantly vague and stray.

"No," she said snuggling closer to him, resting her head on his chest to listen to the steady thump of his heart. "I just happened to see that detail. So how are you?"

"How am I?" he repeated. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I asked," Abby said. "Do you feel okay? That was kind of a strenuous physical therapy session we had. Just curious if you're feeling okay."

McGee chuckled as he tried to coalesce his thoughts into an intelligible answer.

"I haven't felt this good in a very long time," McGee sighed then hesitantly asked her the same question. "Uh, how are you?"

"Hungry, Tim, weren't you listening to me talk about a peanut butter sandwich?" she replied then tilted her head to see him in the darkness. "Oh, you mean… Well, I'm feeling pretty fantastic over all—you know, other than wanting room service."

"Good," he said feeling his face blush and feeling thankful the room was too dark to show it as she nuzzled his neck and kissed his cheek. "I was worried. At first, when you saw the scars… I guess it was a shock to you. I can see why. I don't really see them anymore, but to someone else they must look horrible. I'm used to them, but I didn't think about how you might react. I should have warned you."

Abby propped herself up on her elbow and fixed him with a careworn expression as she tugged the sheets down slightly to show the vicious red line etched into his flesh. She placed her hand on it gently.

"It's not the scar or how it looks that startled me," she assured him. "It was just being reminded of how badly you were hurt. I saw all of it when you were still unconscious in the hospital. How it looks now is spectacular by comparison. Do you know why?"

"Because it's not bloody and oozing now?" he ventured.

She offered him an exasperated expression that let him know his blunt response was not the right one. She chalked the reply up to it being simply a demonstration of his naïve default setting of full honesty that made him seem occasionally cluelessness or unable to read a situation. It might not make him the smoothest talker in the planet, but it surely made him one of the most honest and sincere; she then smiled in an understanding and appreciative way. It might occasionally frustrate her, but one of her unwavering hopes was that this was one aspect of him that would never change.

"No, they look better now because we can mention it in the past tense rather than the present tense," she corrected him. "When I first saw what happened to you, all this was new and still dangerous. Now, it's a scar. It's older and safe because you healed; it's just history."

He nodded, appreciating her honesty and her assessment. It was better than his mother had been able to do. She had not been able to be in the room when nurses changed the dressings on his bandages during his recovery. He doubted she would ever find anything but feelings of terror associate with any mention of the permanent marks.

"I was worried you would be turned off by the sight of it," he confessed while some doubt remained in his voice and his expression.

"Not even for a nanosecond," she answered him truthfully. "Did I seem turned off at any point since we stepped foot in this room?"

He considered mentioning that she had a not very pleased look in her eyes a moment earlier when he said the words bloody and oozing but refrained from uttering that observation.

"Um, I'll have to say no," he smirked as he rubbed a spot on his neck that felt like the bloom of a hickey.

"That doesn't sound very confident," Abby replied as she nibbled on his ear. "Do I have to find a way to convince you?"

"Well, now that I think about it, there might have been the teeniest room for a sliver of doubt…," he began but did not get much farther in his strategic and devious attempt at conniving as she pulled him close to her. "Do with me what you must."

"Oh, I fully intend to," she vowed.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Monday rolled around sooner than McGee expected. Sure, it was just 24 hours after Sunday started, but his weekend felt altogether too short. For the first time since returning to DC, he was not eager for the week to start or to go to the office. Saying good morning and then goodbye to Abby as she left his apartment almost sent him into a funk until he realized there was a chance that the paperwork restoring his Special Agent status would be on Vance's desk and waiting for a signature that morning. A little hopeful voice deep in his mind—one that sounded a lot like Abby—said there was even a chance that the papers were already signed if the director had worked over the weekend.

That possibility perked up his morning and made the drive into DC fly by despite the traffic that made him 20 minutes late. He did not care. He could practically feel his badge in his hand once again, and that brought a rare non-Abby related smile to his face as he entered the squad room and approached his desk.

Tony, lonely as he was the only one from the team present thus far, took note of McGee's late arrival and excited expression with suspicion.

"Pleased with yourself about something, McTardy?" he remarked.

McGee huffed at the question and the nickname. Not even Tony was going to drag him down. There was tension between them, not unlike the friction he felt around Gibbs, but McGee hoped when he was actually a fully functioning member of the team again that would improve.

Unimpressed by his first volley being ignored so easily, Tony cleared his throat and redirected at his target.

"Forget where the office is?" he wondered. "Over sleep? Get delayed while getting me coffee?"

"No," McGee said flatly.

He had tried to be casual and make it to his desk without doing anything to stir Tony's interest. Gibbs' gut might be renown for is acuteness, but Tony's was sharp as well and more outwardly suspicious, particularly about his co-workers—not in a criminal way but more of a ' _I'm nosy and can't help myself so let me invade you private life_ ' way. McGee watched him toy with Kate for a year, then tiptoe around Ziva's life for several more. As for himself, he had outlasted both of them and still maintained something of a private life. Granted, he was a male in whom Tony held no interest in conquest and normally there wasn't much to his life anyway, but it was his. McGee intended to keep things private and quiet until he was more certain about where his life might be going.

But, as always, Tony was like a shark when there was blood in the water. He swiveled in his chair and locked onto McGee. The senior agent noted his teammate was refusing to make eye contact. This was a new tactic that bothered Tony because it seemed a bit too submissive, even for McGee. It was also rude, which was something McGee never was on purpose. In truth, Tony figured the guy had a good weekend, and he was willing to allow MCGee moment of McSwagger until Tony was rebuffed. This treatment could not go unchecked, he decided.

"How was Timmy's weekend?" he asked in a leading fashion.

McGee had anticipated the moment when Tony might begin to dig into what was going on in his life. It had taken longer than expected; of course, Tony was also treating him like an irrelevant intern who didn't merit any attention at all lately. Still, Tony was both a natural investigator and pathologically nosy. He couldn't help himself usually. He had to know everything about everyone. It figured that eventually he would get around to rooting around in McGee's world. For that reason, McGee had already thought about how he would deal with Tony delving into his private life when it finally happened. After much contemplation and running of hundreds of scenarios in his mind, McGee had come up with the best possible approach to dealing with it.

He would tell the truth—most of it.

"It was good," he said simply. "Great even."

"Really?" Tony said dramatically as he stalked out of his chair toward McGee's desk. "Great as in there was a Star Trek marathon on so you got to watch every episode? Great as in your mom mailed you cookies? Hey, did she? 'Cause if she did, you should share."

McGee snorted and shook his head as he signed into his computer and began sorting his email in hopes of finding his notification that his badge and gun would be returned that morning. However, there was nothing so far. He scowled at that before answering Tony's inquiry.

"None of the above," he replied. "Something better."

"Better?" Tony cocked an eyebrow in McGee's direction. "How? What, did you have a date or something?"

"In fact, I did," McGee replied. "More than one actually."

"More than one?" Tony wondered and received a shake of the head in response. "You had more than one—like two dates? Was this a computer thing, or was there a real woman there in front of you in the flesh either time?"

"I spent the weekend with her in person," McGee said. "She's very much real."

"You mean back-to-back days…?" Tony began.

"And nights," McGee offered as he began composing an email to inquire on the status of his application to regain his status.

"Days and nights?" Tony repeated in awe. "You pulled a McDouble, an evening so nice she had to do it twice? I'd be proud of you if I believed you, which I don't. So who is allegedly lucky Miss Double Take?"

McGee shook his head.

"None of your business," he said strategically.

Tony scoffed and leaned over McGee's desk. He shook his head pityingly.

"We've been down this road before, haven't we?" he said. "You really think you can keep her a secret? From me? Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo is a master at discovering secrets. Hold on. Is it your sister? That is so not a date, at least outside of Mississippi and Alabama."

McGee rolled his eyes rather than respond. Tony nodded and leaned back a bit, stung by the flare of anger in his probie's expression. There was less playfulness, less willing punching bag, than the senior agent was used to in these scenarios. There was, however, plenty of chilly temperatures in McGee's scoffs and expressions.

"You will tell me what I want to know eventually," Tony vowed. "I have ways, Probie-sanh. We both know that's true."

McGee inhaled slowly and nodded.

"You have, in fact, invaded my personal live on numerous occasions," he agreed. "I don't doubt you will do so again in an effort to satisfy your juvenile nature. When we were friends, I would put up with it. Now, you're just wasting my time, so I'm going to do what I can to salvage my day by getting you to drop this quickly. Let me make this obnoxious intrusion into my private life easy for you. Here."

McGee handed Tony his phone after he typed in the passcode.

"Her name and number are in the contact list," he said. "I'll give you five minutes to look to see if you can figure out who she is. Here's the catch. If you can't figure it out on your own right now, you give me your word that you will butt out of my life at least until the seasons change. Deal? Or do you not trust in your Very Special Agent detection skills enough?"

Tony listened to the challenge and taunt, bobbling the phone initially and nearly dropping it as he heard the acid in McGee's words as their friendship was filleted into nothingness seemingly without a care. Rather than dwell on that, Tony chose to ignore it and instead snatched the phone before it hit the desk or the floor. McGee merely tapped his watch to indicate the clock was ticking. Never one to back down from a challenge, particularly one tossed at him by McGee, Tony swiftly agreed and began furiously scrolling through the recent messages and call logs. All were suspiciously empty other than a text conversation between McGee and his mother from the previous Thursday. He then turned to the contacts and was stunned to see hundreds of entries listed.

"You do not know this many people," Tony snarled as he read the names looking for one that was promising.

"Apparently, I do," McGee shrugged as he returned to sorting through his email.

He did not think it was necessary to mention his contact list had grown substantially since he was injured. There were medical offices in two states, a series of specialists and their various office numbers, his physical therapists (again, two states) as well as psychiatric counselors. There were the people he met and befriended while going through the various stages of recovery—fellow PT and cardiac surgery patients and several friends he met through his mother's friend Griffin who were now among his acquaintances; that one was a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader might set Tony off if he knew who she was. He figured Tony might know that if he bothered to stay in touch over the summer or make any effort to reconnect once McGee did return.

Tony paid the passive aggressive attitude he was receiving no mind as he zoned in on what he thought was his target. It was the only name that stood out because she was not fully identified. The veiled attempt to hide the name was what caught his very special agent eyes.

"Ha!" Tony proclaimed and began hitting buttons. "Found her: Holly. First name only; no last name; no other info besides the number. Classic attempt at hiding an identity. I believe we have a bet on this. Do you owe me money now?"

"I owe you nothing," McGee held out his hand to retrieve his phone. "Besides, you're wrong. It's not Holly. Now, you have to leave me alone about this until at least the end of September."

McGee had mixed thoughts about that. Part of him would enjoy watching Tony twist himself into knots trying to keep his word. Part of him didn't think it would be necessary as there was a chance he and Abby would no longer have anything between them by the end of the next month.

"I am not wrong," Tony asserted. "Your secret friend is this Holly person, and I will prove it by doing this."

He hit the call button as McGee tried to grab for the phone, but succeeded only in getting it put on speakerphone in the process. It rang twice as Tony held it aloft while stiff arming McGee to keep him from getting his hand on it. His protests went unacknowledged as the phone rang twice then was answered by a seductive voice.

"A daylight call," Holly said in a pleased tone. "This is either very good or very bad news, Tim."

"Wow, she sounds hot," Tony whispered to McGee before turning his attention to the phone. "Hello, is this Holly?"

There was a paused and her tone stiffened slightly as she responded.

"Who is this?" she asked guardedly.

"I'm a friend and colleague of your friend Tim," Tony grinned. "I was just wondering if you might confirm something for me…"

"Holly, just hang up and ignore him," McGee said but found Tony's free hand clamped over his mouth.

"No, Holly, ignore Tim," Tony said.

As he spoke, Holly laughed gently prompting Tony to lower the device and look at it with wonder, intrigue and suspicion.

"Oh, this is Special Agent DiNozzo, isn't it?" she guessed confidently. "I thought your voice sounded familiar. Is there a reason you have Tim's phone that either involves me or should concern me?"

"Uh, maybe," Tony replied warily. "Have we met?"

The voice sounded strikingly familiar to Tony, but he could not place it. She knew his name and his voice. She seemed to be amused by that; however, he was stumped.

"We have—professionally," Holly cooed. "Well, your profession… and mine, sort of, but I had permission to be working."

"Okay," Tony blinked and looked at McGee who simply held out his hand for the phone. "I'm sorry, but I'm not certain who…"

"The last time we met, I had you order the spicy canton," she recalled. "Then you had to go make wee-wee."

Tony's expression went from blank to stony (with a rosy complexion) in the same instant. McGee snorted his laughter at both the comment and the sudden loss of composure on Tony's face. As they stared at each other with opposing expressions, Abby walked around the corner. She looked at the scene with a curious gaze as she approached McGee's desk.

"Holly Snow?" Tony croaked. He took on a demanding tone as he glared at McGee. "What are you doing with Holly Snow's number?"

"Mostly helping her get out of dungeons lately," he responded truthfully as he snagged back his phone. "Sorry about this Holly. Tony was demonstrating his finely tuned investigative skills."

"I see," she chuckled. "Well, I hope he found what he was looking for. By the way, Tim, I have to tell you again that whole thing with your wand is miraculous. It made the difference between a wasted weekend and having some of the most fun I've had in ages. I swear I didn't sleep at all from Friday evening onward."

Abby bit her lip as she watched the confusion and shock cascade over Tony's face. It was as if she watched his vocabulary evaporate and disappear right in front of them. On the other hand, McGee appeared oblivious to this as he turned to see her at his desk. He smiled genuinely.

"I told you that you wouldn't be disappointed," McGee replied, grateful his advice to her about obtaining a wand of Hemlock had assisted her avatar in her latest quest.

"The queen bows to you, Elf Lord," Holly replied as she disconnected. "I'll be in touch."

Abby started to smirk at both McGee's lack of comprehension of what that exchange had just done to his teammate and at what the banter's sounded like to anyone who didn't understand it initially. She was aware he had helped Holly recently with a virtual world predicament. He took a call as they waited for room service to arrive late on Friday evening. He was hesitant to take the call at first, but knowing the foundation of their relationship, Abby insisted he answer the former madam. If McGee helping her navigate her virtual world played any role in keeping her in a law-abiding life, Abby was very supportive of him taking her calls and being her friend.

Tony, however, looked like he had suffered head trauma after the recent conversation.

"You, Holly Snow, and your…. wand?" he gaped. "No. I…. I refuse to… No. Never. I think I'm going to be sick. Someone get me a trashcan."

"Well, I told you it wasn't her," McGee said.

"Then, who?" Tony demanded. "Wait. First, why are you friends with Holly Snow, and what did she do with your… you know?"

"I thought you were going to figure this out on your own?" McGee remarked as he smiled at Abby, who wore a puzzled expression.

He saw this as an opportunity to come clean with Tony without the man realizing it. Sure, it was a little devious, but since the man was practically asking for it, who was McGee to deny him?

"Figure what out?" Abby asked. "What's going on? Hey, are you two finally talking again—like for reals?"

Neither paid her question any attention.

"Oh, I will figure out it," Tony growled and tried to snatch back the phone. "Give me your phone. My five minutes aren't up yet."

"They are now," McGee said, putting the device back in his jacket pocket as he looked casually at Abby then back at Tony. "If you used your special agent powers for good rather than evil, you might realize that the answer has been right in front of you this whole time."

He stared at Tony with a calm and amused gaze. Abby stood beside McGee, watching Tony ignore the blatant and literal clue. She sighed and swatted McGee's arm.

"That's what this is about?" she sighed. "He's rattled from the phone call. This is like when people use a laser pointer and make their cats go crazy trying to catch the spot on the wall. That's just wrong."

"Well, he started this," McGee shrugged.

"And I'm finishing it," Gibbs said as he arrived on scene. "Abby, what are you doing up here?"

"Being a prop apparently," she shook her head as she huffed then continued through back on track for her initial journey. "The vending machine downstairs is broken. I'm just up here for a candy bar. In case you were curious, I think your team needs to put their heads on their desks for a little while."

"No time for that," Gibbs said. "Grab your gear. Body in a dumpster in Arlington."

"Marine behind a bar?" Tony ventured as he pivoted to grab his bag.

"Navy Petty Officer behind a motel," Gibbs elaborated. "Bishop's already in the van. McGee, what are you doing?"

He had reached down to grab his backpack out of habit and instinct. Gibbs' hard stare made him release the handle and sit back in his chair. He sighed.

"I'll be sitting here waiting for you to call and tell me what to do," he replied in a defeated voice.

"Have your wand at the ready, Elf Lord," Gibbs said as he made his way to the elevator.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Three days.

That's how long McGee had been waiting for word that his status was re-instated. He haunted his email and voicemail each day, looking for the official word that he was again a field agent. Yet nothing came.

During his allowed work hours, he sat through grueling stretches of very little to do until something happened that the rest of the team could not handle (and that Gibbs would allow him to do). That was the tricky part, the Gibbs' factor. He was stingy with his assignments. More often than not, he doled out work to Bishop and Tony, who would then shuttle some of the computer-based tasks to McGee. On occasion, Gibbs would throw him something to do, but it always felt either menial or like a last resort.

But that was about to change, McGee told himself.

He made his peace with Gibbs' estrangement. Abby suggested several times that McGee talk with his boss about how he was feeling. McGee didn't think a discussion with Gibbs about feelings would get him anything but more steely stares and even fewer assignments. McGee's own theory was that Gibbs was ignoring him as a resource because he worked with agents, not support assistants, which was what McGee essentially was at that time. Once was carrying his badge again, things would go back to normal.

Tony, of course, was another story.

McGee wasn't exactly sure why he was mad at the guy; he only knew he was. What puzzled him more was what was up with Tony.

Since the day McGee returned to the office weeks earlier, something felt off. A little voice in the back of his head kept telling him it had something to do with his time in Baltimore. He did not know what precisely, but every time he felt his anger burn toward Tony, he would think back to the early stages of his recovery. Tony was there twice that he recalled—which, given the severity of what happened to his partner didn't seem like all that much in McGee's opinion. Still, the two times he had clear memory of seeing him, he could not put his finger on any one moment that would have created this bizarre wall between them, but like Gibbs, Tony wasn't one for sharing and talking about feelings.

He recalled a strange discussion between them in which Tony seemed to have an over appreciation of McGee's mother. Bishop had told him about her theory of an odd crush on Carol McGee to fulfill Tony's need to be mothered. McGee was willing to accept that as the root of their hospital conversation. The discussion after he left the hospital was perplexing. Tony seemed to be pushing him for information about McGee's time in Afghanistan—time McGee could not remember. It seemed to McGee what he said (or didn't say) was being held against him… that or the fact that McGee ended up getting hurt overseas in the first place. It was insane, but it did explain the aloof demeanor he was receiving from Tony. He had expected (even partially looked forward to) the jokes and jabs and predictable insults from the man upon returning. Yet there was nearly nothing. McGee sighed thinking, oddly, how he almost missed being treated like Tony's probie.

"Uh oh," Abby said as she crossed into the room. "That's the frustrated sigh."

McGee looked up, casting his eyes around casually as he noted with pleasure that they were alone. He found that happened to him a lot lately, being alone in the squad room. Tony and Bishop disappeared for unspoken tasks. The more annoyed parts of his mind wondered if they were working on a case together, one he was not even permitted to know about, but he wrote that off as mild paranoia. Still, the team was currently out in the field and away from their desks now more often than he recalled them being previously. Then again, he realized, they had to make up for being one person down so that mean more interviewing and interrogating (something he was not yet permitted to watch even) for them.

"Pretty much," McGee agreed as he smiled weakly at her. "What brings you up here?"

He tried to keep his question casual, yet he was glad to see her. First off, he was bored and lonely. Next, he had not seen her the previous night. It worried him a bit at how quickly he had grown accustomed to spending his time with her outside the office. The worry wasn't in the time he was spending with her so much as his fear that he was beginning to feel that urge again—the one that wanted more than just a simple dating relationship. He feared this meant, at least in his mind and heart, they were approaching that crossroads where their previous attempt at dating had fallen apart. Still, he put those thoughts away for the moment as he was just glad for her company.

"I could say that I missed you," she remarked quietly while fighting a grin, but then flapped her arms and vented her frustration. "But mostly I have nothing to do. Not that I didn't want to see you, but I'm very nearly bored in my lab, which has never happened to me even once in my career. You know, I never realize how much time I spent on the little, routine tests and analysis we do until I didn't have to do all of them anymore. My three guys have all of that handled. I wonder if this is how Gibbs feels. All the footwork I started doing long ago is now in the hands of my minions and I am left to… What is it Gibbs does while the rest of you are minioning for him?"

McGee shrugged. As he pondered that, his computer chirped. Out of boredom, he had started refreshing his querying abilities. As he had no subjects to focus on, he decided to use his own identity and financial information as a test case. The query he ran had just run into something unexpected.

"What the hell?" McGee muttered as he started reading his screen with surprised interest.

"What is it?" Abby asked peering around the front of his desk at the screen.

"Maybe a problem," McGee said as he began checking his query. "This can't be right."

"What can't be right?" she asked then smirked. "Should I say that more gruffly with a stern expression to sound like Gibbs?"

"Please don't," McGee requested offhandedly. "This is insane. Someone's been checking me out."

"Other than me?" she remarked quietly. She walked around to his side of the desk and looked closely at the data. "Wow. That's… that's… What is this, McGee? What's going on?"

McGee scrunched his brow and began typing, sifting through the information. In the last two months, someone done deep scrapes on his bank accounts, his credit cards and any financial account using his social security number. His online profiles were also viewed from the source code upward. Someone, either with seriously dangerous computer skills or an exceedingly high security clearance, was investigating McGee.

"I have no idea," he replied mystified. "I haven't seen anything like this since…."

"Since what?" Abby asked as his words trailed off and his expression grew worried.

"Since Vance had me do deep background checks on Keating, Langer and Lee when he was looking for the mole a few years ago," McGee said furiously scrolling through the screens. "Abby, what is this? Why would someone be investigating me?"

Her chin dropped and her eyes grew wide at what she was seeing.

"I have no idea," she replied. "You need to tell Gibbs."

"Tell him what?" McGee scoffed. "Hey Boss, I think someone's cyberstalking me; my whole electronic life has been viewed but my identity and my accounts haven't been tampered with? Someone's just looking at them but done nothing to them? I mean, what's my complaint going to be? My credit score hasn't even changed."

"That's your credit score?" Abby blinked. "Wow, I thought mine was good. Are you sure nobody's tampered with your accounts?"

"As far as I can tell," McGee said typing furiously to look through his searches more carefully. "I'll need to back trace this to a source IP and figure out who started it."

"Let me do that," she offered. "I have nothing to do right now, and it seems wrong to hope for a crime to occur to fill up my day. Besides, I have a dedicated server that can cut through this more quickly than you can from up here. I'd offer for you to join me in the lab to help, but…"

"But it's not a good idea, yeah, I know," he sighed dejected. "You seriously have nothing to do? What about the DNA from that body they found in Arlington on Monday?"

Abby shrugged but smiled proudly at the efficient work of her assistants. They had taken care of all the prep work needed to run the tests and even completed most of the paperwork. All that was left now was the waiting for the system to spit out the data on whether the genetic material recovered from the body produced any results from the armed forces database or the violent offenders' database.

"Just waiting for the computer to spit out the results," she answered. "So unless the team catches a new case in the next 4 hours, I have nothing to do for the rest of my day except go over test results that I've already finished. Let me do this for you. Send me your query results, and I'll get to work digging up whoever's been giving you the long once over without my permission."

McGee turned his head curiously to look at her with a narrowed, questioning gaze.

"Your permission?" he wondered.

"Yeah," Abby said. "If anyone is going to look at you this kind of interest, they need my permission first. McGee, the next step in this level of scrutiny is watching you shower and sleep—and that's my prerogative only."

She tossed a wink at him, and McGee felt his ears burn red and knew his face matched that shade while he fought valiantly to keep a grin off his face.

"Office, Abby," he reminded her under his breath as he scolded himself for letting his mind stray yet again.

Whatever anxiety and violation he was feeling from having his accounts sifted through so completely evaporated for a moment. Again, he felt the surge in his chest that told him things between him and Abby, at least on his part, had gone beyond just stolen moments outside the office and the occasional sleepover. It worried him because he knew he was long past the starting to fall stage. He had gone head first into the L word and there was no turning back… until he had no choice (which would happen when she realized he was interested in things between them becoming more serious and she hit the panic button to get off the ride entirely).

"We're alone," she grinned as she whispered. "Besides, I've said more suggestive things to you when we weren't seeing each other. Now, email me everything you've got there. I'll let you know what I find. When Gibbs gets back, you should tell him. Oh, hey I've been meaning to ask if you've seen Palmer lately."

McGee shook his head. Autopsy was also an off-limits area for him it seemed as Gibbs gave him no reason to go there, and it wasn't exactly a normal stop during his day unless he had a specific purpose to visit the room where the bodies were stored. He had seen Ducky other than if he dropped into the squad room, which was rare. McGee explained that he hadn't seen the man's assistant in a couple weeks, yet another example of the exile McGee found himself in since returning.

"Something's up with Jimmy, and I'm starting to worry," she offered.

"You worry about everybody," McGee noted, trying to hide his glee that her sharp eye and sharper worry woes were not pointed at him and yet she was still maintaining her interest in their outside entanglement.

"True, but something is up," she replied. "Every time I see him he turns into a stammering and tongue tied mess. Today, I asked him if he was okay."

"And?" McGee wondered.

"He said he was good and then started to ask how I was, but then he backed off and apologized saying it was none of his business," she shrugged. "Has Tony said anything to you about him?"

McGee snorted and looked coldly at the agent's empty desk.

"No," he said flatly.

Abby cocked her head to the side at his response then offered him a sad and mildly worried gaze. The continuing estrangement between two of her favorite agents was growing in concern. All claims of her proclivity toward worrying aside, she knew she was not the only one sensing the trouble. Twice Bishop had asked her if she knew of any period in the past when McGee and Tony went through a cold war of sorts. Abby had responded that she did—citing the brief break in their bromance during the last case they worked with Holly Snow and a Norfolk Detective Phil McCadden. Still, this rift between the two men felt different.

"McGee," Abby sighed. "You two need to work out whatever is going on between you. He's your best friend."

McGee scoffed at the proclamation as he shook his head.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said stiffly as Bishop's phone started ringing. "Besides, you're my best friend."

"Okay, well, yes that's sweet and true," Abby agreed. "But Tony's also your best friend, and you work with him all day long. Come on. This has gone on too long. You miss him; I know it. Letting this continue is not good for either of you."

McGee turned his head away and clenched his jaw. Abby stared at him with concern. His obstinacy was different from this past in that to her it seemed to bring out a bitterness in McGee she found foreign. Talking to him about it seemed wise, but there was a cold look in his eyes that made her back off—for the time being. She was granting him his space, not that she felt comfortable doing so, but that was what the counselor (the one Cranston recommended for her when Abby began having insomnia issues after McGee was hurt) told her she might need to do. However, giving him space was one thing. Ignoring something that looked to be a festering issue that could cause greater problems was something else entirely.

"If you're mad at him, you might need to tell him why," Abby offered as McGee refused to look in her direction. "Maybe he doesn't know what he did. So, if you know what's wrong and you don't do anything to try fixing it, then you're not helping matters, and you're not helping yourself any."

"As far as I'm concerned, everything is fine," McGee replied stiffly. "It Tony has a problem with me, then he can take it up with me."

Abby stepped back, startled by the cold response. She had diametrically opposed reactions. She wanted to give him a stern, hands on hips lecture, and she wanted to hug him and tell him that whatever hurt him was going to turn out okay. She could guess, and had guessed, what was eating away at him where Tony was concerned. It was as much the lack of acknowledgment that he was back and whole again as it was the lack of contact to find out how he was doing when he was on leave.

McGee felt her eyes on him and was not in the mood to receive sympathy, pity or any other emotion. He also did not want to get mad at her for something that was not her fault. Abby was the one consistently bright spot in his world currently, and he did not want anything to dim that. So, rather than get into a discussion with her about his issues with Tony, McGee turned his attention to Bishop's phone.

"I should grab that," he said dismissing her. "Call me if your search turns up anything."

Abby frowned but opted not to pursue the problem in the present location. She was willing to let this issue slide with McGee—and only with him—for now. There was, of course, someone else she would address the matter with in the meantime.

"Okay," she said simply with a limp wave. "I'll call you later after I look at your query results."

He acted as if he did not hear her as he walked to Bishop's desk and lifted her phone.

"Agent Bishop's desk," McGee said.

"Is this Agent Bishop?" the raspy male voice on the other end inquired.

"Uh, no, she is not here at the moment," McGee replied. "Can I take a message?"

"She called me," the man replied. "Just calling her back. I've been on my boat for a few weeks; didn't get her message until today. What's she want?"

"Uh, I don't know," McGee said. "Who is this? Did her message leave you any indication why…?"

"More than 20 years ago, I spent two weeks stuck on the goddamn ship with only bread and water for my meals because some little bastards messed with my work space," the man growled. "That's what I told the Navy then and that's what I'm still saying. I don't know why the fuck this Agent Bishop wants to talk me about it again. Ain't no way the goddamn Navy can punish me again—especially since I wasn't guilty the first time—and they can't hold my pension over my head either. I'll tell you this, if you finally got those little bastards who got me in trouble to confess, then I'm suing the whole Defense Department for mental distress."

McGee raised his eyebrows then rolled his eyes as he grabbed a pen and began making notes.

"Okay," he replied. "What is your name?"

"Renner, Kyle J," the man barked. "Petty Officer, Second Class, retired."

"Alright, Mr. Renner," McGee said. "I doubt Agent Bishop is looking into a 20-year-old case involving a Captain's Mast that just resulted in a two week restriction. She probably has something more important to discuss with you, but I don't know what that might be."

"Well, her damn message said it was about my restriction back in '86," Renner insisted. "Ain't you badge-flashing cop-wannabe's at NCIS got anything better to do than look at things that don't matter anymore? Why don't you investigate them contractor crooks who bilk the Defense Department out of millions of dollars of my pension money? I see the news. You got terrorist running security at your overseas bases, but instead of hunting them down you're spending your time sending your little girly agents to bother me and take up my private time."

McGee took the beating stoically. He let the man finish spewing his bile without interruption.

"I'm sure Special Agent Bishop will be able to explain her need to speak with you," McGee said. "What is the best number and time to reach you, Mr. Renner?"

The man scoffed, growled then rattled off a phone number and stated he would be around nearly anytime over the next five days. He actually sounded a bit lonely to McGee, as if half of his grouchiness in making the call was that there was no one to talk to him at length.

"I'll give her the message to call you as soon as she returns to the office," McGee said.

"He's dead, you know," Renner offered in parting. "The one that did it to me, who punished me. Him and my CO—both dead now thank God. I wouldn't accept an apology from either of them even if they were alive. Master Chief Dixon was just a pansy and a puppet, and the captain was the biggest sonofabitch of them all. I always figured he knew it was his goddamn son that was responsible—that's why I got punished, because I knew it, too. When I read about him dying in the Navy Times, I said good riddance. Best damn thing to happen to the Navy in 50 years was that bastard John McGee dying."

The words hit McGee with the sudden force of bullet (or what he supposed one felt like as he didn't actually remember being shot). It was like a cold, sharp punch to the gut. He stopped writing.

"Thank you for returning Agent Bishop's call," McGee said automatically. "She will speak with you soon."

He hung up quickly and looked at the empty desks around him feeling stunned and lost.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** _More to come…_


	29. Chapter 29

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Bishop returned to the office following her interview with the commanding officer of the man who was murdered and found behind the motel in Arlington earlier in the week. Gibbs sent her to Fairfax for that as the dead petty officer happened to be a paralegal at JAG headquarters. His superior apparently had a less than cordial history with Gibbs' team. It seemed that whenever contact with that Navy Commander was required, it was usually McGee who was sent, but as he was still considered restricted to his desk, this left Bishop with no one to share the interviewing burden.

She looked toward McGee's desk and thought it odd that he was not there; however, she did find a note on her keyboard in his handwriting—the telltale left-handed slant giving away the author before she even needed to look at the bottom signature. Of course, recognizing the handwriting was not one thing. The foreboding sensation she felt upon read the note was something else entirely.

Retired Petty Officer Kyle Renner had made contact.

Unfortunately, that contact was with McGee.

Bishop read the phone message and nearly swallowed her tongue. She cast her eyes warily toward McGee's empty desk and wondered if she dared chance returning Renner's call during his absence. She was prepared to lift her phone from its cradle when she felt someone was watching her. She turned, cautiously, to see McGee looming over the half wall beside her desk.

"Oh good, you got the message," he remarked with a bland expression. "I happened to be by your phone when it rang. Just wanted to be helpful since I'm stuck here in the squad room with nothing to do most of the time, you know. You calling him back now?"

"Uh, no," she nodded and tried to keep her face impassive. "I'll return the call later."

"So what's that all about?" he asked. "Need any help with it? Renner seems like a real piece of work. Not the friendliest or most cooperative guy from what I could hear. If you're tied up with this case in Arlington, maybe I can talk to Renner for you. I just need to know what you were going to ask him."

Bishop tilted her head noncommittally and began to hope for anyone at all to walk into the room to save her from having to lie. As the seconds ticked by, the universe refused to cooperate. Karma was not something she ascribed to usually, but she was beginning to get the feeling that keeping this investigation secret from McGee was not going to be easy any longer nor would it end well if he found out what they were doing.

"Thanks, but I think I can handle this," she said with false confidence. "It's pretty routine."

In the back of her mind, a little voice began chanting: _Stop talking; you're lying; he'll never trust you again._

"Really?" McGee wondered, keeping his voice casual. "Since when does the major case response team do anything that's routine? I thought the whole point of Gibbs' team was to deal with things that are less than routine, the big stuff that gets tricky and complicated."

Bishop plastered a phony smile on her face and shrugged in a sad impression of cluelessness. McGee continued to look at her with a mildly curious expression that made her stomach twist with guilt all the more.

"I mean routine as in it's not going to be a hard interview," she explained, choosing her words carefully. "Mr. Renner is just an old lead I'm looking into for something. You know, it probably will lead to nothing. I've just been trying to reach him for a while. He's retired and has a charter boat business. The summer is the busiest season for him, and it's getting near the end of the season. Did you know that late summer is one of the busiest times for private fishing charters around the mouth of the Piankatank River, the York River and inside Rudee Inlet? There is an entire website dedicated to the Virginia Beach Sport Fishing community which covers the waters between the Chesapeake and Cape Hatteras."

McGee shook his head slowly in response. His mind quickly told him Bishop had learned Rule 7 ("Always be specific when you lie") somewhere along the way. She continued her subterfuge unaware she was busted. A bitter taste seeped into his mouth as he felt a knot begin to twist in his chest. He swallowed back the rising anger he felt as she continued

"Yes, according to them, the hot spots are producing sizeable catches on Croaker, Pigfish and Northern Puffer," Bishop continued to ramble.

She started to relax as she felt she now had a means to maneuver the discussion out of choppy water. She had nothing more to say about fishing, but even that would open an entirely new conversation she hoped.

"That is definitely something I did not know," he said honestly. "Still, I've been wondering what retired Petty Office Kyle Renner has to do with any current cases. I checked the NCIS database and couldn't find any logged mention of him in the last year."

Bishop blinked and held her face in check.

"Uh, well, like I said, it's kind of not anything real solid yet," she said evasively as her hope of getting away clean on this faded. "It's not exactly a current case. It's part of an old file I was looking at. It's probably nothing."

McGee nodded, bitterly cataloging for future reference what her face looked like and her voice sounded like when she lied to someone she knew and who previously trusted her. He noted that Bishop was nearly as bad at lying as Abby was; the scientist's entire face and body always seemed to rebel against deception (unless she was bluffing at cards for some reason). Bishop's body was not going into quite the same shock that Abby's would when she was withholding information or being deceptive, but it was close.

"Really?" McGee questioned, his voice taking on a chill. "It was kind of funny that I answered that call—you know, considering."

"Considering what?" Bishop asked as she tried to blink away the tension while keeping a bland smile on her face.

"Considering Renner had a stellar service record during his career with only one blemish," McGee offered. "I've gone through my entire NCIS career thus far and never once did I encounter someone who had direct contact with someone I knew before becoming an agent. Renner, as you seem to know, received a captain's mast—one he blames me for no less… Well, he mostly blames his former captain—my father—but he thinks I'm the one who should have been punished."

"He does?" she asked slowly.

McGee nodded easily keeping his voice and face as passive as he could as anger boiled in his chest. He could hear his heart hammering in his ears as he felt his pulse rise while the muscles in his grew tight.

"Of course, he didn't know who he was talking to when he said that, but he still had plenty to say," McGee offered. "For the record, if he said to my father even half of what he said to me on the phone, I'm not surprised he got a two week restriction back then. Actually, I should say, I'm surprised he only got a two week restriction. Even when he was a captain, the Admiral required a showing of respect in all conversations, particularly between a superior and as subordinate."

Bishop swallowed and looked at him with very wide, very round eyes as her face turned a misty pink. She sucked in her bottom lip as she looked into his unblinking and very much not amused eyes. She had seen McGee annoyed (usually with Tony); she had seen him displeased (usually with a failed computer search), but she had never seem him angry. Until now.

"That's interesting," she remarked slowly.

"Of course, I assured Mr. Renner that NCIS wouldn't be wasting agency time on a matter that resulted only in a captain's mast decades ago," McGee continued. "I couldn't figure what made him think otherwise. Can you?"

Bishop shook her head and half shrugged her response. How much he knew, she could not yet determine. Whatever he knew, or thought he knew, about her inquiry she suspected it was not sitting well with him. She could not tell if he was genuinely baffled or on the verge of being angry. It unnerved her that she could not read him; McGee had never been an enigma to her in this way.

"Yeah, that's… I don't know," she said evasively.

"Really?" McGee asked offering up another detail in such a way that it sounded innocent yet her gut was telling her was more contrived. "That's odd because he said that your message for him was specifically about that incident. That's strange: him saying that and you not remembering it. Maybe he got the message wrong."

"Uh, yeah, must be," Bishop said simply cutting her eyes away as she felt waves of guilt radiating off her. "I just have some questions I need to ask him. We haven't opened a case file on anything."

McGee scoffed. He heard the doublespeak in her tone clearly.

"Well, you specifically haven't as far as the records I can find are concerned," McGee said, the offense in his tone rising. "You know, the one thing I always appreciated about NCIS over other federal agencies is that we don't investigate friends and colleagues without a compelling reason. Or, I should say, that's not how we used to do things. I've been out of the loop for a while so maybe I missed something."

Bishop took a deep breath as she knew she could no longer maintain her hopeful denial that the phone call could slip back under the radar. Her orders from Gibbs and Tony were firm: Find and question Renner. McGee was involved in the case somehow (they were still sketchy on that) so he was not to be looped in at all. Bishop dug in her toes and turned a stony face to meet his.

"No one at NCIS is under investigation," she said firmly.

"What about my father?" McGee pondered. "He's dead, so I've been told. Little bit of expert testimony for you Agent Bishop, the man never did anything illegal. He was a difficult person to know and like, but he was not a criminal."

Bishop shook her head vigorously as she looked at him and saw the furious narrowing of his eyes and the flat line of his mouth

"No one is investigating any member of your family," she assured him.

McGee's face was a mask of doubt and betrayal. There was something wary yet hard in his light eyes.

"Why should I believe you?" he asked. "You've been sitting here lying this whole time. Care to tell me, if me and my family are not under investigation, why someone took a hard look at all my electronic records and my mother's in the last month and a half? I'm talking about a deep, long, forensic look at just about every electronic system I know of, using some untraceable methods. Well, nearly untraceable."

His reflexive smile was more of a sneer, a triumphant taunt.

"Nearly untraceable?" Bishop swallowed as her throat got tight.

She realized the culprit must be Parsons. He reported that he was looking into a variety of records—including McGee's. Fortunately, he had found nothing of interest with McGee other than the secret role Admiral Porter played in covering his staggering medical bills. McGee and his family was in the clear, but it did not appear that Bishop simply saying so was giving him much confidence. Given that he had no clue why anyone would be looking, his doubt was justified.

"Whoever it was is good, but Abby and I are better," McGee said with a sharp glare at her. "We found their trail—kind of like electronic breadcrumb. I think we'll have it linked back to the source anytime now. I can tell this much already: It's a U.S. government entity. The only questions now are why and who. The why will probably sort itself out once I know the who part. I've been sitting here, waiting for you guys to return, and making it a game: Who is it? CIA seems highly unlikely—what would they care about me and my family? The NSA is apparently a possibility—I found out your old friends crashed my father's funeral and recorded it. Of course, there's always the FBI. Well, whoever it is, I'll know soon enough.""

"You and Abby are working on this?" Bishop questioned. "She's helping you?"

"Of course," he nodded. "That's what friends do for each other."

Bishop felt the sting of his words despite the lack of an audible barbed tone. It did not sound expressly like a passive aggressive comment, but there was no way to overlook the double meaning.

"That's nice of her," Bishop remarked trying to keep her voice light. "I can save you checking one office: this one. We're not looking into you or your family."

"We?" he grabbed onto the word. "I thought you said _you_ were looking into an old case involving Renner. Now it's ' _we'_? Interesting. So someone else on the team is involved."

He turned his head and looked suspiciously at Tony's empty desk. He then looked back at Bishop and watched her face crumble as she realize she had said too much and needed to attempt some damage control.

"Tony and I are just looking into something," she said.

"You and Tony?" McGee wondered, his voice sounding suddenly and disarmingly affable and only mildly curious. "The team is short a team member on present day cases. Are you sure talking to Renner is worth the effort? Between the chip on his shoulder about the Navy and the number of years since he served, he's probably not the most reliable source for anything other than complaints that he didn't retire at a higher rank. If I were you, I'd start wondering if it was worth the time and effort to talk to this guy. Think about it. We both know how Gibbs feels about dead ends and wasting time."

Bishop shook her head confidently and replied easily as she felt they were again on common ground: Gibbs' fickle temper.

"He's been fairly tame about the delays so far," she said then stopped as McGee's expression became cold once again.

"I see," McGee nodded slowly. "Good to know."

He then walked toward his desk. Bishop looked down at her own and kicked herself for the probie mistake. She had not realized until it was too late that McGee was subtly interrogating her undercover of being surprised and offended. He had extracted confirmation of details he had apparently guessed at in her absence but that he now had confirmed. She thought about trying to come clean a bit and explain when McGee's phone rang and captured his attention. The call was brief and seemed to catch his attention swiftly. It was a short conversation that had him up and out of his chair instantly.

"McGee, I…," Bishop began as he passed by her desk.

"The director wants to see me," he said dismissing her as he turned his back and headed for the stairs.

"But, just let me explain," she request.

"No," McGee snapped as he took the stairs in a determined fashion. "We're done here."

Bishop sat at her desk feeling miserable and frustrated. She was the one giving Tony lectures about treating McGee like a teammate again and not letting him feel alienated, but in the course of two minutes she had just done more damage than three months of Tony's aloof behavior had. She hung her head and buried her face in her hands, which is precisely the pose in which Gibbs found her a few minutes later.

"Where are we on verifying the Hanson's wife's whereabouts on Monday morning?" Gibbs asked as he returned from his check in with the autopsy crew.

Bishop blinked and looked up at him with confused eyes. She then shook her head as she was reminded of the case at hand.

"Uh, I haven't started that yet," she said. "I'll get right on it."

Gibbs noted her detached and deflated demeanor. He cocked an eyebrow as he looked at her critically.

"Did I miss something?" he asked.

She turned guilty eyes toward him as she lowered her voice.

"McGee was just here," she said.

"Where is he now?" Gibbs wondered as he spied the empty desk.

"The director called him upstairs," she said. "He hasn't come back yet. Gibbs, he knows that we're doing an investigation that we're keeping from him. I tried to throw him off by pretending it was nothing, but he knows that's not true. He knows I lied to him."

"How?" Gibbs asked.

She pondered the question briefly. The possible answers were many: by ignoring him they missed that he was watching them; he wasn't stupid by any stretch of the imagination; he was a trained investigator despite his current down-graded assignment. There was something else, something more than just coldness and normal anger in his eyes, but she did not know what that might be. That left her with the reason that was giving her the most guilt.

"I underestimated him," Bishop confessed. "He's better at coaxing information out of someone than I realized."

Gibbs' initial reaction was a snort and a half shrug.

"He has his moments," he agreed finally.

If there was one thing he did not do, it was underestimate his agents. He knew full well what McGee's capabilities were when it came to finding answers. There were times when Gibbs was certain he knew McGee's skills and competence better than McGee knew himself, which was why he was not buckling the younger agent's charade that he was ready to return to his former post. It wasn't easy boxing the kid out, forcing him into a spot that made him uncomfortable and like he had no other options; however, it was necessary. If McGee, easily the most logical and rational agent he ever trained, couldn't see the obvious truth in the mirror, then it was going to take a special kind of pressure (the cold and unyielding kind that Gibbs learned from his own father) to make him figure it out.

"Gibbs," she said hesitantly thinking of all the days they overlooked McGee and acted as if doing so was normal. "I don't thinks he's okay. I mean, he just seemed… more than hurt by all of this. I've never seen McGee mad before and…"

"And what?" Gibbs asked curiously.

"Have you ever watched a pot of water boil over?" she asked. "At first, it bubbles a little over the side and sears when it hits the heating element, but then all of a sudden it just kind… explodes. This seemed like the first stage. I got the feeling that there was more coming when he walked away."

Gibbs grunted, taking the information in and feeling that pang in his gut—the one that had been gnawing at him for weeks—return with a vengeance as he looked at his agent's empty desk. Bishop shook her head as she looked toward the stairs leading to Vance's office.

"I really should apologize to him when he comes back," she said. "I'm not sure saying sorry is enough to make up for lying to him, but I should try."

"Apologize for what?" Gibbs asked. "Doing your job? That investigation is close-hold."

"But I didn't say that as the reason why I didn't tell him the whole story," she argued. "Instead, I lied to him, and he knows it. How is he ever going to trust me—or any of us—again?"

Gibbs sighed as he scrubbed his hand down his face then shook his head. The question for him wasn't whether he could forgive them; the question was whether he would be the McGee they knew again, because Gibbs felt fairly certain that was not who was coming into work each day. He was nearly McGee, but something (as Gibbs had contended since July) was off. He had aired that worry to both Vance and Cranston already. Whatever was going on in Vance's office was likely going to confirm that.

"He'll do it the same way he does with everyone else who lets him down or doesn't live up to his expectations," he replied without any evidence concern.

Bishop scoffed and shook her head as she explained that Gibbs did not see the look on McGee's face as he walked away from her or the cold brush off she got when he left the squad room.

"Drop it," Gibbs ordered. "Leave him be for the rest of the day. When this is done, and we've got the answers we need, he'll understand and get over it."

"I don't know," she said with wide-eyed worry. "He's angry and pretty upset."

Gibbs sighed as he looked at her over the top of his glasses.

"McGee can do something most people can't manage," he said.

"What?" she asked.

"Forgive, and mean it," Gibbs replied. "It's one of his secret weapons."

Bishop's face twisted sourly as she tried to make sense of the approach Gibbs was taking. It did not sit right with her, but if she had learned anything during this investigation it was to trust Gibbs—even if what he claimed seemed wrong. Still, there was a part of it she knew would never make sense to her.

"Forgiveness shouldn't be a weapon," she muttered as she focused again on the latest case rather than Renner.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Vance's Office_**

McGee sat opposite the director's desk and heard nothing but a buzzing sound in his ears after the man stopped talking. He had been summoned to speak with the man in-charge about his reinstatement. He had foolishly thought he was there to receive it.

Now, having heard what Vance had to say, McGee regretted picking up the phone when the man's assistant called him to the meeting. McGee found he had no solid thoughts in his mind and no words he could speak for several moments. He made no sound and did not move a muscle as he let the words sink into his mind and process. Vance regarded him carefully, waiting for a reaction but receiving none.

"I know this is not what you wanted to hear," the director began. "I'm not pleased with it either."

"I don't understand," McGee said eventually. "How can I be passed over for reinstatement? I scored well above the minimum requirement for firearms qualification—it was my third highest score in my career in fact. As for the medical assessment, my doctors removed all restrictions and pronounced me fit for duty. You have that report."

Vance grunted at the truncated list of requirements.

"They can rule on your physical fitness for duty only," the director reminded him. "You had evaluation with Dr. Wolf."

"I passed that," McGee insisted heatedly. "I sat with him. I answered all of his questions—more than once. I'm not a danger to myself or others. I'm not afraid to do my job. I'm not going to suddenly snap in the middle of working a case. Why am I not being reinstated?"

Vance raised his eyebrows at the badgering tone he received. McGee was not the first, nor would he be the last, ego to enter this room and believe he knew better than whatever order he was given; however, hearing that attitude from this particular agent was unexpected. Vance had only received that level of surliness from McGee once before, when he felt slighted at learning Gibbs and Tony were working on an old terrorism case without him for prolonged period. Trust was a hot commodity, and while McGee was no stingy with his, it was apt to take a tantrum like approach when it was broken.

"Because there is more to reinstatement than paperwork," Vance informed him. "A psych eval is not a pass/fail assessment. You want points because you didn't flinch when you went back to the shooting range? You got 'em. We're all impressed with the way you came back to DC eager to jump right back into the job, but it takes more than just a desire to carry a badge to do this job. You, of all people, should know that. So, regardless of what this says or doesn't say, the fact of the matter is that you're not going to be reinstated until you get management concurrence. Currently, you don't have that."

McGee clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes in anger. He had done all that was asked of him. He had submitted to their tests. He had followed their desk restrictions, all for one reason: to get his job back. He hadn't committed a crime. He hadn't betrayed the agency. He hadn't even made a mistake if what others told him about Afghanistan was true. It made no sense that he should be punished for that.

"So you think I'm not capable of being a field agent?" McGee asked. "I've worked for you for nearly eight years, sir. You know I can do the job, and you don't have no reason to refuse my reinstatement."

Vance huffed as he sat forward in his chair and squared his shoulders. He did not like the agent's tone, but he fully understood it. He did not think he could be much calmer in the man's place, and it was making him second guess his decision to hold him back from field work.

"It's not about the skills you possess," Vance said.

"No, it's about the unfounded theory of a psychiatrist who doesn't know anything about being a Federal agent," McGee sniped. "If he thinks a few irrelevant spots in my memory will hinder my ability to do my job, then I really thinks someone should be questioning his competency to do his job rather than letting him do that to me."

"I read the report, McGee," Vance interjected sternly. "No cognitive defects. Those holes in your memory are limited to things in the past that I don't give a damn about. What concerns me is your ability to do your job when the situation gets dicey."

"How does anyone know how I will react?" he asked aggressively. "I've been held hostage in a prison and helped solve a murder—two in fact. I've been in the building when it blew up, but I came back to work and helped track down the man responsible. I was captured by an Islamic terrorist and use as a punching bag, and still managed to help free my teammates before help arrived. No one ever questioned how I would react after those incidents. Now, because I got a few stitches everyone…"

"It's more than a few stitches, and we take post-traumatic stress seriously in this office, McGee," Vance said severely as McGee clenched his jaw and glared daggers back at him. "I strongly suggest you do the same. I'm not saying your career is done. I'm saying until you convince a psychiatric expert and me that you're ready to pick up your shield again, you're on desk duty."

McGee scoffed as he shook his head in disbelief.

"How do I convince you when the truth wasn't enough the first time?" he asked angrily as he kicked the front of Vance's desk. "Director, I didn't lie. I didn't hold anything back. I answered the questions—all of them—fully and honestly. What the hell do you all want from me?"

Vance kept his seat to not escalate the electrified atmosphere. He had hoped not to see this reaction (and not merely because it meant the agency had paid a shrink a lot of money to tell them what Gibbs had figured out for free in a matter of minutes a couple months ago). The director paused and let McGee settle once again.

"The first thing I want is for you to get a hold of yourself and remember where you are and who you're talking to," the director replied in a cool but firmly voice.

In truth, what Vance wanted wasn't possible. He wanted to put his agent back in the field, whole and unscathed once again. He wanted to restore his top team to solid working order with all its members. He wanted to roll back to clock and never send McGee to Afghanistan in the first place in order to avoid the questions and the reports and the paperwork that was making this little head-to-head necessary.

"No one's saying you're crazy or too damaged to recover," he continued strategically. "They're saying you're not ready. There's a difference between those things, and the quicker you accept that, the sooner you can start working on getting ready. I know you want to return to your team in your usual capacity. I want that, too, but I'm not putting you back in the field until my experts tell me you've got a handle on whatever is going on with you. Before you tell me you're fine, let me point something out you don't seem to have noticed: You've just spend the last five minutes shouting most of your responses at me in my office and you nearly put your foot through the front panel of my desk, McGee. Can you tell me that's something you would have ever done before last spring? Is that how you react to not getting your way? I've got a teenage son with more impulse control than you've got right now."

McGee looked down sullenly. He was certain plenty of people had shouted in this office previously without being ruled as unstable. He was not a threat to others, and he certainly wasn't a threat to himself. As for this tone, he was mad, but he didn't think he should be punished for feeling that way. As for the shouting and the kicking of the desk… He hadn't fully realized he had done that. It wasn't how he normally reacted. He was just frustrated and tired. Abby had been sleeping at her own apartment for the previous two nights and he found that made him restless and brought on the recurring dream of his father. Lack of sleep did not always bring out the best in him.

"I'm just frustrated, sir," he replied trying (and failing) not to sound petulant.

"There's no rule that says you need to get your badge back the first day you're eligible to apply for it," Vance said in a milder tone. "Historically, most agents take an average of six months."

"Not Gibbs," McGee offered.

"He never went through what you did," Vance said waving a copy of the report that started this discussion. "And if you think comparing yourself to Agent Gibbs is going to help your case, you've got a bigger issue than what's stated in this report. I don't need anyone competing with that man for hardest head in the agency. You're here physically, but you're not all back yet, McGee. You need to give yourself some time. We need you, but we need you at your best not limping along and trying to fake that everything is fine."

"But I am fine," McGee insisted.

Vance tossed the folder in his hand across the desk. McGee watched it skid to a halt but did not move toward it.

"Read how _fine_ you are," Vance said and began quoting the findings. "What? Don't want to look? Let me give you a few highlights: _Subject reports recurrent dreams although denies they are nightmares; displays increased startle response; demonstrates an irritable or anxious mood; reports difficulty with concentration; and shows a marked aversion to addressing these behaviors_. :

McGee shook his head. He had stated things of that nature to Dr. Wolf, but he felt they were being taken out of context in this report. He tried explaining that to Vance but got nowhere.

"Subject appears emotionally numb to the events that resulted in his prolonged hospitalization," Vance continued in his recitation. "Discussions with coworkers indicate he is detached from friends and shows little interest in previously normal activities. Would you agree that those are red flags, Agent McGee?"

McGee scoffed. He had plenty of normal activities that occupied his time. While his private life was open for scrutiny due to the nature of his job, those questions and inquiries were usually the purview of the individuals charged with doing his periodic background investigations.

"I'm not sitting in my apartment start at the walls and sucking my thumb," McGee said. "I'm not plotting revenge for what happened to me. Frankly, it's really no one's business, but I'm involved with someone right now. I spend a lot of my time away from NCIS with her. That's a lot more normal than my life was before I got shot. I think that shows that the claim I'm detached is simply unfounded. What it tells me is that Wolf talked to Tony DiNozzo. It's not my problem that Tony needs a new doormat to walk all over simply because I'm done letting him treat me that way. As for being numb to what happened to me, I'm not. Why is it so hard for people to believe that I'm coping with what happened just fine? I don't dwell on it—isn't that the healthy response? I suppose it doesn't hurt that I also don't remember it happening. I've behaved in a perfectly healthy and acceptable way since returning. I went to all of my doctor's appointments. I did all of my required physical therapy. I continued to have a life outside the office. I didn't run out and arm myself like some dooms day survivalist planning to attack anyone who comes near me. I just focused on doing what needed to be done to do my job again and to get my old life back. That isn't evidence I'm numb to the seriousness of a gunshot or that I've fallen apart and can't be trusted. It's evidence that I'm a rational and responsible adult worthy of the trust this job requires."

Vance raised his eyebrows at that counter argument. Wolf predicted most of what McGee had said—his hyper rational thought processes apparently made evaluating him difficult as he often anticipated the point of the question and provided rich and detailed responses that made diagnosing them a clinical psychiatrist's job a nightmare. Vance was almost willing to buy off on most of what McGee said, but it did not alleviate all the concerns in the report nor Vance's observations that day.

"Wolf's report didn't make up my mind, McGee," he said. "You did that for me. The way you reacted in here to today is all the prompting I needed. Your request for reinstatement at this time is denied. Take some time, get whatever is going on with you under control and then we'll discuss your options. Got that?"

McGee's express crumbled from coiled as if ready for an attack to decimated and destroyed in the blink of an eye. All fight bled out of him as he slouched in a defeated way in the chair. He merely nodded although it seemed more of a remote action than an agreement to Vance's order. The director sighed because he felt for the man having stood on a similar precipice before himself.

"I'm not gambling on this one; the risk isn't worth it," Vance said. "Tim, you're too valuable of an asset to this agency and to the people who care about you for me to let you return to duty until I'm certain you're ready. This report isn't the end of your career. It states that you're not presenting a classic case of PTSD. You're also not showing signs of depression; there's no evidence of self-medication."

"That's because I have none of that," he said in a sullen fashion. "So maybe Dr. Wolf is wrong and I can handle returning."

"I don't think so," Vance said in a compassionate voice. "His report states you might be experiencing Stress Response Syndrome."

"Adjustment Disorder," McGee translated the old term from memory, having seen it in court transcripts from defense cases over the years. "Can't it be something else? That isn't something you can have if you are going to be a Federal agent."

"We don't get to change the report to make it easier to accept," Vance said. "Now, you're not being placed on administrative leave. I'm reassigning you to the cyber unit for now to work on what you pulled from that laptop back in July. The techs in the subbasement are unlocking the different bundles, but they can't make sense of the evidence. I want you looking at it and providing me with reports. I know this isn't what you want to do, but it's all you're going to be allowed to do for now."

"For how long?" McGee asked in a dejected manner.

"Look, the only way you're getting your spot on Gibbs' team back is for you to sit with a doctor so you can heal whatever is still ailing in your mind," Vance said. "How long it takes to fix this is up to you and you alone."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _MTAC_**

As late afternoon approached, Gibbs walked into the darkened and hushed atmosphere of the secure room. Two techs busied themselves on the side computers as Vance watched footage from a satellite feed. What the images projected precisely, Gibbs did not know. As it did not involve his team directly at the moment, he would keep his curiosity to himself.

"Your team have anything new on Hanson?" Vance asked as Gibbs sat beside him.

"No, Tony is canvasing the area around the bar where he and his wife were the night before he was killed," he replied. "No one saw or heard anything. Bishop is on the phone with the cold case guy, Renner, arranging to speak to him in person."

"What about McGee?" Vance asked. "Where's he?"

"Apparently, he headed to the cyber unit a while ago," Gibbs reported.

"My assistant heard Susan Grady crossed paths with him after he left my office," Vance said sourly. "She heard McGee nearly tore her head off after she asked when he might be scheduled for his polygraph."

Gibbs grunted. He heard something about it as well but the witness who spoke to him indicated Grady might be overstating the altercation as most found it hard to believe that McGee would act brusquely to any woman (or pretty much anyone that wasn't Tony). Many in the building still believed that Grady's crying fit was more the result of the feelings she still harbored in McGee so when he became short with her she burst into tears needlessly. Gibbs suspected there was more to the story.

"I haven't seen him," Gibbs replied. "He didn't tell me where he was going or why."

"You sound surprised," Vance noted then spied the flat expression on Gibbs' face that was an answer in itself. "You expected him to check in with you before he left?"

"Yeah," Gibbs nodded. "He usually follows protocol. I need to know where my agents are."

"Well, your agent is a little pissed off right now," Vance huffed. "Following protocol wasn't part of his operating instructions today."

"McGee doesn't get pissed off," Gibbs corrected. "He grumbles and he sulks, then he gets over it and gets back to work."

Gibbs was certain of that assessment. A man needed a bigger ego than McGee had to get pissed off. He surely had a robust appreciation for his intelligence and school, but there was very little ego behind that. It might crop up occasionally when he felt he was being overlooked, but even then it was more like a few minutes of a jaw clenching pout that melted away when he got his fingers on a keyboard and started digging for some clue that he felt would validate his sense of self and worth—and it usually worked. Pissed off just never really made it on the table as an emotion for the guy.

Vance, however, disagreed. There was no other description for what he observed in his office earlier.

"Well then he learned some new skills apparently," Vance revealed. "I had the talk with him like we discussed. It wasn't precisely an ' _if looks could kill_ ' moment, but if turning me to stone was possible, he would have tried it. He might have considered taking a swing too, but apparently he decided kicking my desk was enough. After that, he tangled with Grady. Do we need someone to watch him?"

Gibbs raised his eyebrows in surprise then sighed with disappointment that wasn't precisely unexpected. McGee was not his hothead. Ziva had been the one into strong-arm tactics with a few impulse control issues. Tony was his smart alec with an aggressive need to strut and preen. McGee was his quiet one, his shadow lurker who could take you off guard by not seeming threatening. Vance's report let the supervisory agent know that his suspicions about his junior agent were unfortunately on the mark. The conversation between the director and McGee had been purposeful and strategic—a discussion planned by Vance and Gibbs a day earlier to either prove or disprove aspects of the psychological evaluation.

"Our discussion unfolded pretty much like you said it would," Vance said. "Now, I'm second guessing this plan of yours. I know we agreed there are two ways to get the genie out of the bottle. Rub it or…"

"Pop the cork," Gibbs. "It was your choice for which you chose to go for."

Vance gave him a firm look that left no doubt the session had not been an ego-stroking sympathy fest.

"You leave anything out when you talked to him?" Gibbs asked, finding it odd his agent did not confront him afterward.

Vance grunted his displeasure with being questioned. How he conducted his personnel decision and actions was his business.

"I told him what needed to be said," the director replied. "The final decision on whether he gets his field status back rests with me alone. I told him I wasn't convinced he was ready. I figured you could use the company on his hate list. He already knows you don't think he should have come back so soon."

Gibbs chuckled. The thought of McGee hating anyone was laughable. He might not like everyone or respect certain types of people, but he was too gentle of a personality to ever let hate take root in him and fester. He was certainly angry at the moment, but the agent's conscience and character were too big to get wrapped up in the small pettiness of hate.

"He got tagged twice today," Gibbs said. "He stumbled onto one of the players in the cold case so he knows we're not telling him everything we're doing. Then you gave him a reality check by telling him he's still benched."

"So he's doubly offended because thinks we're calling him weak," Vance nodded his understanding. "I know he didn't take what I did say very well. He thinks Wolf's report is wrong. I listened to his argument about that. Dr. Wolf was right when predicted how he would try to reason his way out of it. On the surface, he makes a strong case for appeal."

Gibbs offered him a frank expression that asked a question.

"No, I didn't buy it," Vance answered. "The fuse is burning. I see it now. Who spoke to Wolf? Some of his findings are based on statements from unidentified colleagues."

Gibbs had spoken with the doctor briefly, but only after McGee had his meeting with the man. The discussion with Gibbs was short and to the point. He restated the same concerns he cited for Cranston.

"Bishop and DiNozzo talked to him," Gibbs replied.

"Are they in a position lately to say how McGee has been acting?" the director wondered. "You cut them off from talking to him most of the summer. Is there any chance what they think is detachment is just McGee being mad about that so he's not talking to them in retaliation?"

Gibbs offered him a blistering look that stated firmly he did not like having his judgment about his team questioned.

"You just said you saw for yourself he's not back yet—not all the way," the agent aid. "I said he wasn't ready to come back months ago, but DHS got him to help out when he was barely on his feet again. Wolf's your expert. His report says McGee's still not ready."

Vance heard the unspoken ' _I told you so_ ' in the man's words but let it pass. This was not the day or the time to get into a pissing contest with the former gunnery sergeant.

"Why didn't you direct Wolf to Miss Scuito?" Vance asked. "Seems to me, she's the one who has the most interaction with Agent McGee lately, and I know there's no way you didn't already know that."

Gibbs raised his eyebrows in question. Vance offered him a knowing look in return.

"I don't make it a habit to know who is bunking with whom around here, but that doesn't mean I don't know all the same," the director said. "I thought you had a rule against intra-office dating for your team."

"I do," Gibbs replied flatly.

"So like the rest of your rules, it exists simply because it can be broken?" Vance snorted. "And I thought raising teenagers was hard. For now, McGee's back to cyber to work on what he pulled from that laptop back in July. Frankly, Keating needs his help so even if he was ready for a return to duty, I'd be sending him to work on that data anyway. From what I'm hearing now, keeping him in a controlled and quiet spot sounds like what he needs."

"I think keeping him benched is the right decision, Leon," Gibbs said.

"Letting him simmer like this without intervention doesn't feel wise," Vance shook his head.

Gibbs sighed. He agreed. Not forcing McGee to talk to someone about whatever was eating at him was not the same as leaving him alone to navigate this alone. However, he needed to come to the realization on his own; forcing him to sit with someone would only make it harder for him, Gibbs knew.

"McGee is not as fine as he wants us to believe, but he's not going to do anything stupid," Gibbs said. "He doesn't even realize it himself what's going on with him. I don't know what it is, lost memories, trauma flashbacks, some fear he's hiding. Whatever. When he's ready to face it, then he'll be ready, but he's got to decide for himself."

Vance nodded. His gut was not finely tuned the way Gibbs' was, but his mind was incisive and decisive. It was telling him some of the same things. A little reluctance or trepidation upon returning after his injury was expected, but McGee was showing none of that. That bothered Vance. No one should be so calm and collected upon returning to the job that nearly killed him. It wasn't normal, and it certainly wasn't McGee any more than the harsh reaction Vance witnessed from the man in his office that day. That afternoon's conversation had stripped away McGee's veneer of control.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Abby's Lab_**

Gibbs hurried to the lab after receiving a message that Abby needed to speak to him regarding the Hanson case. He entered the lab to hear music filling the air but thankfully it was not at ear-splitting decibels. Abby stood over her keyboard as she turned her head at his approach.

"What do you got, Abs?" he asked as he intensely surveyed her screens.

"Some icky but helpful answers," she offered pulled up data on her monitor showing a chart with a variety of lines across it. "I've identified two DNA strands from the samples Ducky sent me. The first is from the bite marks and saliva on Petty Officer Hanson's neck—we'll call those love bites. Those belong to Jenna Hanson, the petty officer's slightly toothy wife."

The figuring out why Hanson, a clerk with the Fairfax JAG office, was found dead and discarded behind a dumpster had been the week's focus. When located, Hanson's body showed signs of sexual assault and manual strangulation. The brute force used upon swiftly disqualified his wife as a suspect, although in keeping with Tony's normal practice, she remained a person of interest until other evidence was able to rule her out.

"Well, that matches her story," Gibbs recalled. The woman told investigators she and her husband had a wild night to celebrate his 25th birthday. Finding him in an alley behind their hotel the next morning, however, was not part of their plans. "What's the other sample?"

"Semen Ducky found during autopsy," Abby said with a sympathetic grimace. "Hanson was violated by this individual." Her fingers danced over the keys and pulled up a mugshot and rap sheet. "Daryl Tolliver. He would have been a three strikes candidate except he was found not guilty by reason of insanity for his last demonstration of not playing well with others—aka aggravated sexual battery. He was supposed to be in a locked psychiatric facility in Greensboro, North Carolina; however, 14 months ago they had a fire and not everyone who evacuated St. Loony Bin came back inside again. He somehow slipped away during that evening and has been missing ever since. Looks like we nearly found him."

"You mean he found Petty Officer Hanson," Gibbs sighed. "That's good work, Abs. Send that to DiNozzo so he can issue a BOLO."

"Uh, I already did," she said.

Gibbs looked at her questioningly.

"Then why did you call me down here?" he asked. "Something else going on?"

"Well, I wanted to talk to you," Abby asked hesitantly. "Are Tony and McGee talking at all? Ellie was down here the other day, and she's worried about them, too. I tried calling McGee earlier and texting him and emailing him. I'm getting no responses. I know you don't want to hear anything about out of the office stuff, and this isn't that at all. This is me, Office Abby, who is worried about… office stuff."

Abby hadn't wanted to bring up McGee's name with Gibbs as there was some tension between them as well, according to what Bishop reported and the few things McGee would say to Abby outside the office about what was going on upstairs. She tried asking him for more detail, but he would always change the subject. After some unsuccessful prying, she told him she planned to ask Gibbs. The response she received was troubling. He merely scoffed and said 'good luck with that.'

"I'm not a relationship counselor," Gibbs said firmly.

"No, but you're Tony and McGee's boss," Abby insisted. "Maybe you could order them to be friends or smack them back into it—just don't actually smack them because hitting people isn't nice."

Gibbs sighed and shook his head.

"Which one are you actually worried about?" he asked with interest.

"Both of them," she replied honestly. "They need to get their groove back and if they're not playing nicely together then they can't do that. Why? Are you worried about just one of them?"

Gibbs was in an awkward spot. He did not want to hear about her relationship with McGee. He didn't like hearing about any of his agents' private lives. Even when he spent time with Jake, the subject of his wife rarely came up… or it hadn't in the beginning. More recently, the man had asked Gibbs advice about NCIS officers and families. When he thought about it, Gibbs felt more comfortable talking about what was jokingly called the ' _McNozzo bromance_ ' in the office than he did discussing whether it seemed reasonable for Jake to talk to his wife about starting a family.

However, Gibbs was worried about one of his agents—he was annoyed by both of them, but there was worry for just one.

"I'm worried people have too much time on their hands if they're worried about whether two of my agents are playing superhero and sidekick in the squad room," he said tersely. "Is there something I should know, Abby? Is something worrying you?"

Asking the question seemed wise and appropriate to him. Abby, however, did not agree—at least with his phrasing.

"You're with them most of the day," she said. "If you're telling me you're not noticing something is off, then I will believe you."

She looked at him with hopeful and expectant eyes. The innocent trust in her gaze jabbed at him. His eyes must have given him away as she pounced on his doubt and pointed a finger at him.

"Aha!" Abby proclaimed. "Things are still hinky upstairs. I knew it. Gibbs, that needs to stop. They're friends. They need each other."

"What's he doing when he's not here?" Gibbs asked abruptly and silently hoped she didn't answer with a flirtatious "me" response. What he got instead was a scrunched brow.

"You mean Tim?" she asked cautiously. "Just typical McGee stuff."

Other than being a little moody whenever she mentioned Tony or anything about work, he seemed mostly normal to her. The only other real difference in him she noticed was the restlessness of his sleep. She questioned him about it, but his response was plausible if not overly detailed. He merely said he was anxious to get his agent status back.

"Is he sleeping?" he asked, directly, knowing he was treading on unsafe ground but his reasons were legitimate.

The quick blink and widening of her eyes was all the answer he needed. The snappishness he noted from McGee lately in the squad room was a telltale sign. McGee had been able to master many of the skills needed to be a topnotch agent, but exhaustion was his Achilles heel. He could not operate at full capacity with just coffee and less than four hours of sleep before his composure and concentration took a hit. Not that he was at that point yet, but Gibbs was seeing the early signs.

"Gibbs, I don't feel comfortable talking about this," Abby hesitated.

"You want a relationship with someone on my team, then there's a price," he said. "I don't ask for details unless I need them."

Abby inhaled slowly as pondered the question as much as her answer. She knew McGee wasn't always sleeping soundly. He stirred some nights and seemed to spend long periods staring at the ceilings. He didn't thrash or scream as if locked in a nightmare before waking, but he did seem to suddenly wake for no apparent reason every few days, usually on the nights when he would grind his teeth a bit. Those she knew from the past were signs of stress. She felt a bit guilty for not probing deeper into what was bothering him, but she sensed he wasn't ready to talk about it yet. She tried pushing for information once and found he changed the subject and wouldn't let it get back to that topic again.

It was an oddly defensive response to sleep interruption, but she knew he was trying so very hard to keep people from worrying about him. She initially thought he was simply overcompensating in that area. She tried assuring him that it was nothing to worry about; she had battled insomnia in the past—her most recent bout occurring that late spring and resulted in her not being able to sleep in her own bed. Devastatingly vivid dreams of her formerly comforting coffin becoming a final resting place for her friends and coworkers no longer made sleeping in it possible. Therefore, sleeping at McGee's had become a wonderful and unexpected reprieve for her. She no longer got twisted into uncomfortable knots from sleeping on her couch, and she found the steady rhythm of his heartbeat to be the best sleep aid she could ask for. That she was not able to bring that level of comfort to McGee so far troubled her but it was on her list of things she was watching carefully and coaxing him to discuss. In the past, she knew she would have demanded answers from him, but the chance it would push him away was too great a risk. Slow and easy was her course currently; it was difficult (some days painfully so).

"Abby?" Gibbs prodded.

"He's restless sometimes," she said simply.

"Why?" Gibbs prodded as watched as she shrank back from him. "Abby, I need to know if something's going on with him. It's for his own good."

"I don't know what you mean by going on," she said. "He's not up pacing his apartment at all hours. He's not taking any medication—prescribed or otherwise. He's not falling to pieces or flying into rages. He's a little irritable sometimes when the subject of work comes up, but he's stressed about his status. He wants his life back on track."

"Does he seem normal to you?" Gibbs asked. "I mean outside of this building, is he the same person you knew him to be before Afghanistan?"

The honest answer was no. He wasn't the same, and she didn't expect him to be. He was quieter sometimes and a little more skeptical. He had developed a slightly more pronounced stubbornness, like trying to prove something—to himself and others—that he was not damaged or frail. Neither were completely true, she knew. He was a little broken—how could he not be after everything? If he pushed himself too much too soon, he could break; his doctors had told him as much. Abby considered it part of her job to make sure McGee didn't push himself too hard, that he let up on himself occasionally, and that he take his time getting used to the speed at which his world spun now. She had been open with McGee about that. He simply thanked her for understanding.

"He talks about his father a lot," she revealed. "For someone who previously never mentioned the Admiral before, I hear a lot about wisdom and virtues of the infallible John McGee lately."

At first, Abby thought hearing about McGee's late father was a good sign, an indication that it was some measure of closure for him as he accepted he might not ever recall memories of the man's final days. But the appearance of the Admiral in conversation was not on the decrease nor did the mentions seem like healing recollections. The words were often on the critical side (held out as facts). It was as if the ghost of the man's most tyrannical moments were hounding McGee like a displeased Jiminy Cricket on his shoulder reminding him of his failures but making him cherish the punishment.

Gibbs absorbed that detail and was less surprised than Abby was by the behavior. Gibbs anger flared briefly then snuffed itself. There was no point in being angry with the dead. He was reminded that one of McGee's first waking comments when he was in the hospital was to ask for his father. At his point of greatest suffering, the Admiral was on McGee's mind. That he was experiencing increased stress and churning up memories of the man was probably not a coincidence.

"Gibbs, I think there are a few things bothering McGee, and some of them are about the team… how you're all being around him," she ventured carefully. "When he's not here, he's better than it sounds like he is upstairs with all of you. Whenever I go upstairs to see any of you, I get a bad vibe lately. Maybe some of this has to do with the whole team."

Gibbs scoffed and shook his head.

"The team's fine," he muttered.

"Well, I think you're wrong about that," she said hesitantly and trembled slightly as she found the courage to say it. Saying the next part was just as hard. "If you know something's bothering him, why aren't you talking to him about it instead of me? Can't you reach him either? Where is he?"

Gibbs said nothing. Telling her that he figured McGee would just lie wouldn't go over well and also wouldn't be precisely accurate. If pushed, Gibbs would confess that he suspected post-traumatic issues were bubbling under the surface. McGee was many things, but a master manipulator and talented actor were not among his qualities. He might not be aware of how he was acting or reacting around others. If Abby was correct and away from the office he was mostly fine—it was probably only a matter of time before that changed. McGee's edginess in the office, the occasional long and distant stares along with the zoned out expressions Gibbs caught from him from time-to-time, were definite blips on his radar. Abby's reluctant admission that he was experiencing sleep difficulties and dwelling on less than cordial memories of his father was another warning sign.

"Leave him be for now," Gibbs said. "I mean it. Steer clear for the rest of the day. I need to speak to him. You don't."

Abby hesitated before responding. This was Gibbs. He cared about his team. He was wise about people. He didn't make mistakes, but this didn't seem right.

"What's wrong?" she asked urgently as Gibbs' phone began to ring. "Is it this thing between him and Tony? That was worrying me before, but now you're flat out scaring me."

Gibbs shook his head as he turned his attention to his phone. Bishop's number appeared on the screen.

"Yeah, Gibbs," he said.

"Arlington PD called," Bishop said. "They got a hit on Tony's BOLO from a traffic stop. Tony was still out, but I called him. He's on his way to the police department."

"Yeah," Gibbs nodded. "On my way. Meet me at the car."

He disconnected and turned a stern yet concerned face to Abby. He knew his concern for McGee was rooted in more than just pangs of guilt over a bad decision he made sending his agent overseas. This was worry for an agent who had something invisible yet dangerous eating away at him—Gibbs was virtually certain of it.

"Leave him, Abby," Gibbs commanded as he headed out the door. "I need to talk to him. Just give him some space for tonight. I mean it, Abs."

She watched him walk out and felt a pang in her gut that told her Gibbs' order was ill-conceived and not one she should follow.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	30. Chapter 30

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Abby's Lab_**

Tony exited the elevator intent on finding the mistress of the lab in the hopes that she might know what had gone on while he was away. They now had an escaped mental patient in the medical lock up and were waiting for Gibbs and Vance (along with the contingent of angry JAG lawyers chatting with them in MTAC) to sort out extradition requests from several other states—including the one from which the guy initially escaped.

Until that was fixed, Tony was in a holding pattern. That left him time with little to do so he had gone to cadaver land only to find Palmer in a tizzy over some office gossip. The autopsy gremlin seemed to think McGee had been reassigned that afternoon to the cyber unit by Vance for some allegedly harsh words he had with Susan Grady in a hallway. Bishop claimed no knowledge of the incident, but sat at her desk, blocking out the world, while wearing a hardened expression that would make a da Vicini sculpture jealous. She had sported a guilty and miserable look since she and Gibbs had joined Tony at the Arlington PD that afternoon. There was no means to talk to McGee to get his side of things as he was simply gone for the day. Abby, Tony hoped, would be tapped into the office grapevine well enough to have some answers.

Unfortunately, as he walked into her normal working space, he did not see her. Instead, he spotted one of the so-named Abby's Angels looming over a microscope. Bill Curly, the youngest of the new lab techs, was in his mid-20s, had a shaved head and skin so pale it nearly faded into his lab coat.

"Hey, Angel Number Three," Tony said greeting Curly as he entered the forensic area. "Is the high priestess of forensics here?"

Curly smirked and shook his head. He knew Agent DiNozzo quite well from his time working in the evidence lock up. The agent was beloved and incorrigible chatterbox but also every evidence tech's nightmare. He arrived demanding evidence without advanced notification; he signed it out, signed it in and then would return two days later to look at it all over again—often times well after normal business hours. He signed forms where he should initial; he initialed where he should sign. He sifted through evidence boxes without any care or concern about whether the items were returned to their original packing position (several of the techs were renowned for their OCD); however, Curly always enjoyed when the gregarious agent dropped by—more so now that Curly was working in the lab because it meant that he could learn more about the cases. His dream was to one day be an agent himself and work for Agent Gibbs (or, should the man do the inconceivable and retire, then work for Agent DiNozzo. Word around the break rooms was that Agent McGee wasn't going back to Gibbs' team, which meant there would be an opening).

"She left for the night," Curly replied brightly. "Can I help you with anything, sir?"

"Yeah, don't call me sir," Tony nodded as he spoke in a clipped fashion. "When did she leave?"

"Maybe an hour ago," the tech replied. "Since we work staggered shifts, the lab is always covered during core hours so we've been encouraging her to trust us to help her do just that: cover everything. Also, Morris has been needling her about her timecard. He's a stickler for that sort of stuff. If she works more than eight hours in a shift, she's been doing it without claiming overtime. He emailed us the personnel memo reminding us that it's a violation of the personnel regulations to do that."

"Turning into quite the little auditor, Moe is, huh?" Tony noted. There were days when he wished someone would explain the concept of a time clock, regular shifts, and overtime to Gibbs.

"He just wants to make sure things are all equal down here," Curly replied. "He figures if she works overtime without the pay it's going to spill over onto us, and we'll have to do the same. I think he doesn't want to be judged as being lazy if he follows the rules. He's not much of a rule breaker."

 _Right and you are_ , Tony thought but kept it to himself.

Curly was nice enough and seemed competent, but there was an eagerness to him that made the agent nervous. Also, he smiled when he looked at Tony, which made him more nervous. Guys were not supposed to smile at other guys—unless there was a good looking woman they had both spotted and were acknowledging their appreciation of her at the same time. He wondered when someone was going to clue these new crop of employees into the way the world worked. He knew breaking in a probie could be hard, but honestly a little solid effort on everyone else's part could work miracles. After all, he reminded himself, look what he alone had done with McGee.

"Where was she going?" Tony wondered.

"I'm not privy to where she goes with her boyfriend," Curly reported.

"Right, well… wait, hold on," Tony stopped himself. "Abby's boyfriend? Since when is she dating anyone?"

Curly shrugged. He was not up on his co-worker's love life—he figured it was either too kinky to hear about and still be able to look her in the eyes, or it was completely dull and not worth hearing about at all (like perhaps her wardrobe was all just a tease). Either way, Curly made it a point not to get nosy about such things. Larry, one of his fellow lab techs, apparently knew who the guy who she dated was and had lunch with him and Abby a while ago. Curly was a little peeved at that—it showed some favoritism in his opinion. Then again, Larry was the most boring person he ever met, so Curly suspected he only got to meet the mystery man so that Abby could make it through her lunch with her lab tech without falling asleep.

"She's been seeing someone since not long after I got reassigned here," Curly shrugged. "I don't ask for details."

Tony huffed his shock. The guy hinted frequently that he wanted to be an agent someday (and made a fatal career move in Tony's opinion when he suggested he would be willing to replace McGee). How Curly, who worked elbow to elbow with Abby most of the day didn't know even the most basic details of his co-workers' lives astounded the agent. Tony had only known McGee for like two hours before he had figured out 60 percent of the guy's life. Granted, the whole family pedigree of Navy royalty, a mother who could be a beauty queen, a sister who was a hellcat, and grandmother who was a brilliant loon did elude the senior agent for a few years, but still… Tony couldn't figure how Curly didn't know the scoop on Abby, the woman who lived out loud and was apt to over-share whenever she was happy and whenever she was not.

Worse yet, Tony hadn't known about this. Granted, things had been off at the office since the events of the previous May, but he thought it extra odd that Abby could be dating someone without him knowing it. The last he knew, she had broken up with Burt several months earlier; the guy had since moved away to another time zone. That she had met someone since then and started dating was surprising… unless she was hiding it for a reason.

That thought triggered a realization as a lightbulb went off in his head: _McGee_.

 _She thinks she's keeping it a secret from him, but he must already know_ , Tony told himself. That made perfect sense to Tony. Abby was apt to keep her romantic interludes under McGee's radar to avoid the jealousy and the pouting he was likely to do. However, all indications were that his partner already knew Abby was dating someone—someone she was sufficiently serious about that she was attempting to keep it under wraps at the office and away from him—and it was eating away at McGee. Tony figured that must be why his teammate claimed he had a girlfriend of his own. He was trying to hide his disappointment that he, yet again, was going to have to watch his favorite heart-breaker spend time with someone else.

That settled Tony's mind somewhat. He felt badly for McGee (as he always did in this situation), but at least it explained McGee's moodiness, the cold looks and the standoffishness Tony sensed from him. It wasn't some psychological issue from his injury. It wasn't a result of trauma aftermath like Gibbs seemed to fear. No, McGee was fine; he was just feeling jealousy and regret, Tony assured himself.

"Who is this guy?" Tony asked, figuring he could do his partner a solid and look into the guy so that maybe it would settle his mind to know Abby wasn't with some psycho stalker. After all, that had happened before without the team knowing it until it became a problem.

"No idea," Curly said. "Larry met him but didn't say much. Not that Larry ever says much. He just said the guy was smart. So to translate from Larry to English, the guy must be like a rocket scientist or something."

"Rocket scientist, eh?" Tony stroked his chin.

It sounded tame… and boring. Although, someone who could fly a rocket could be kind of cool, as long as he didn't have Coke-bottle thick glasses, maybe stepped outside in sunshine and fresh air once in a while, and didn't smell like rocket fuel.

McGee could be insecure, fretting and being passive aggressive if when he worried someone pitted against him might be smarter than he was, especially if that person spent time with Abby. He was still a little miffed about that guy Fred who wormed his way into the lab and managed to wipe clean a laptop with evidence a few years earlier.

"Is that rocket scientist thing literal, or was your scientific stunt double just saying the guy was smart?" Tony wondered.

"I think it might be both," Curly shrugged as an idea, one he thought worthy of an investigator came to his mind. "The guy apparently knows all about jet propulsion and drone flight technology—that's pretty much all that Larry finds entertaining. Anyway, I don't know anything more about him other than Abby might have a picture of her significant other on her desk. I haven't gone to look since we don't go near her desk usually, but I heard her on the phone with someone a week ago and she said _'I'd miss you more, but I was just looking at a picture on my desk of you, Sweetie.'_ So maybe if you look…"

Tony turned swiftly and walked into the back room where Abby's desk resided. The room was dark as none of the components in there were in use. He flipped on the desk light and surveyed the landscape.

There was only one photo frame on her desk, a digital frame that rotated the pictures from one to another. The first image he saw was a picture of Gibbs and Ducky from a Thanksgiving dinner several years earlier. The next was of her brother Kyle and a dog. There was a black and white photo of two people he suspected were her parents (the adoptive ones that raised her). He then saw himself in a bug-eyed pose that he had struck for her to use on her phone years earlier. There was a shot of McGee and Ziva that caught his eye as well. Tony did not know when this one was taken other than it was more than two years earlier. They were in the squad room. Ziva was caught mid laugh as McGee looked in the opposite direction either trying to hide his mirth or avoid looking at whatever was delighting Ziva.

Tony sighed as he looked at her. He missed her a great deal. Not that Bishop wasn't a good agent to work on the team, but there was something more, a touch more zazz and zip in the day when Ziva had been around. He put those thoughts aside as the screen wiped to yet another photo of McGee, this one was of just him. Tony looked hard at the shot and realized it must be a screen capture from the video taken during the botched JTTF sting in July that snatched that computer virus from the laptop. He was in sunglasses and trying to look like an international bad boy.

"Top Gun reject," Tony muttered as he smiled slightly still finding the fact McGee somehow convinced the escaped bad guy (and the two captured) in the JTTF sting that he was an international broker of all things evil. He looked at the picture with a more critical eye. The hollowness of the man's cheeks, the overall drawn look of him was glaring. Tony shook his head and thought, not for the first time, that his partner had tried to come back too soon. McGee was trying to prove to everyone (probably himself most of all) that he wasn't vulnerable or weak. Tony had been trying, in his own way, to let the guy know everything was fine by treating him as if nothing had happened—so that his partner might stressing about getting his badge and gun back. That would just take time, Tony knew. Most guys he knew who came so close to dying and needed a protracted recovery just for the physical damage to heal took nearly a year before returning to work. Attempting it in just four months' time was practically insane—even Gibbs wasn't that strong.

He put the frame back on the desk as it cycled back to the print of Gibbs and Ducky. He spent several more moments pawing over the desk looking for a shot of the mystery man. Finding none, he pushed back from the desk with a frown and left the lab.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _McGee's Apartment_**

It was easily the worst day McGee could recall ever having. Granted, some of his very worst days he could not recall at all, but of those that he could, this one was at the top, even worse than the day he shot and (may have) killed a DC cop.

The wretchedness of this day was not due to his own actions or any of his choices, as far as he was concerned. Everyone else, however, seemed to have it in for him. Vance had all but told him his career was over. Gibbs was probably the driving force behind that. Tony and Bishop were conducting a secret investigation—one he was not supposed to know about!—and that involved his life somehow. One of their persons of interest in that clandestine inquiry had a hate on for McGee's late father. Bishop might have said they were not investigating the Admiral, but McGee had his doubts.

After all, there was Rule 40: _If you think someone's out to get you, they are._

Grammar issues with the rule aside, McGee was finding it to be the most accurate rule of them all that day.

All day long, he found evidence that the people he had trusted for so long had betrayed him.

Making it worse (starting with the unrelenting dream of his father), were the slivers and shards of memories—half formed and twisted around each other—that assaulted him. A small room with several computer stations and two Marines in desert fatigues; Gibbs asking about a Tiger Cruise and Paul Porter. The images would assault him in blinding, rapid succession and leave his heart racing and his mind reeling and disoriented for several moments.

Now, he could add to his inner turmoil the knowledge (and feelings of betrayal) that the team—what used to be his team!—was looking into a sailor who received a Captain's Mast following an incident on that cruise. Despite his previous claim to Gibbs, it was an event McGee had convinced himself never actually occurred (and was one Porter had convinced certainly McGee's father it never occurred).

Altogether, it was recipe for the most blistering, blinding headache he had ever had. Adding that to the fact that lately anytime his mind grew busy and anxious, he just wanted to crawl out of his skin. He previously thought the waiting for his reinstatement was the cause of that. Now, that seemed less likely He reasoned stress and anxiety about it was typical and expected nerves from the waiting. He had told himself so over and over anytime his heart would race, he would feel jumpy and a bitter taste would fill his mouth. Today, all of it came crashing together once Vance told him he wasn't wanted back on the job and Wolf declared him unfit for duty.

After that, the day basically augured into the ground swiftly. On his way to the cyber unit (which he was now thinking of as Cy-beria), he was accosted by Susan Grady. She was peppy and perky and said she was surprised not to see his name on her list for a polygraph to seal his reinstatement process. He didn't recall what he said to her and maybe it was spoken in a slightly louder tone that he normally used, but for some reason she burst into tears and hurried away from him. Considering the ill-timing of her question, he figured he must be justified in some stern words to her.

Once in Cy-beria, Keating was yammering on and on about how he was going to ask that stupid woman how turned him down previously for a date again. McGee finally shouted at him and told him to shut the hell up. He was working—on the only thing they trusted him to do—and he didn't have the time or interest in playing the man's relationship counselor. Keating, too, moved away from him, sulking at his desk like a child. After that, McGee could not focus. The laptop's data as a complete mess. Nothing was making any sense and he could not concentrate so he left. He just stood up and walked out.

It wasn't like anyone was going to miss him or wanted him to stay in the first place. The fact that his phone had remained silent in the hours since his early and unceremonious departure were all the proof he needed for that. All that was left to crown this as the absolute worst day of all time was for Abby to arrive and let him know she had heard about his day and had changed her mind about their relationship since he was considered damaged goods so if he was no longer good enough for NCIS, then she was done with him, too.

While that sounded a little illogical and out of left field to part of his mind, it did not stop the churning fear that pulsed viciously behind his killer headache. So, when she did arrive unannounced at his apartment, he summoned every ounce of resolve he had to plaster a bland look on his face and act as though he was unaware that there was any problem at all.

She didn't buy it.

"Why are you stonewalling me?" she asked. "McGee, something is wrong. Tell me what it is. I can help."

"I don't need any help!" he distantly heard himself shout at her. "What is wrong with all of you? You don't believe me! Vance doesn't believe me! Gibbs doesn't believe me! What do you all want from me? Do you all want me gone that badly? Fine. I'll quit! I'll just be done with all this and everyone from the office. Does that make you happy?!"

Abby froze in place, watching him stand before her with flailing arms and hard breathing.

"Whoa," she said as she looked at him carefully. "Where did all that come from? Tim, I never said I didn't believe you. I asked you what's wrong. You keep saying that you're fine. Obviously, that's not true. Tell me what happened today."

He shook his head and turned away from her. The agitated feeling of wanting to crawl out of his skin returned, and he heard a ringing sound in his ears that only made it worse.

"Please just leave," he requested. "I want to be alone."

"Yeah, that's not going to happen," she said firmly.

"You're going to do it eventually," he snapped. "May as well make it easy and give yourself a good excuse this time. I mean, why the hell are we dragging this out anyway? The newness has worn off for you, I'm sure. Now, I'm sure you're getting annoyed which means you're going to start drifting away. Just do it quickly this time. I've earned at least that much consideration!"

Abby blinked. He was trying to make her break up with him. She could not fathom why. Just that morning, the last time she spoke with him, they were discussing when they might be able to get away for another weekend out of the DC area. She had suggested the days surrounding his birthday in a couple weeks' time if schedules permitted. Other than checking in via email about back tracing the invasion into his records, they had not been in contact for the rest of the day.

"I don't know what's going on with you, but I am not leaving," she said stubbornly. "So, if your plan is to spend the night barking at me and ordering me to go away, you should think of a Plan B because it's not working. I'm worried about you, and I'm here to help you if I can so let me make this clear: You can't say anything that is going to make me leave."

McGee turned to look at her with a disbelieving and challenging look—one that looked vicious and miserable at the same time.

"Oh, yes I could," he scoffed arrogantly. "The last time, all it took was asking you where our relationship was going. You couldn't get away from me fast enough. Shall I ask you that again? No, I have a better one this time. I should I just tell you what I was thinking recently. That will get you out of here pretty quickly."

Abby looked at him in confusion. There was a palpable charge in the air, like something invisible but dangerous was dancing around them in a frenzied way. She merely shook her head slowly, more denying his claim than asking him not to explain.

"Judy, in supply, told me late last week that you were asking about boxes," he said with a cold detachment that usually meant his feelings were hurt. "She told me to mention to you that she was stockpiling them for you. I forgot to tell you over the weekend, but it just came back to me when I drove home today. Everyone goes to Judy for boxes when they're moving. You going somewhere? Guess you forgot to tell me. So much for not leaving. That's an effective and cowardly way to break up, Abby. Just move and not tell me. I get the picture. Well, I do now. See, before, I was thinking things were going really well for us so I was considering… other plans."

Abby sighed. She shook her head, not fully believing this was the source of his anger but was a contributing factor to his attitude toward her.

"Yes, I'm moving," she said. "It was something that came up on Friday morning and that I just decided for sure today. I didn't see you most of today—at least not after I made up my mind. I was actually going to talk to you about it. It will be easier commute and in the end cost less, especially if I had a roommate so I was going to ask if maybe you wanted to discuss moving in with me at the place."

McGee scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"You don't mean that," he shook his head.

"Yes, I do," she said easily. "McGee, I'm not breaking up with you. I'm doing the opposite. I'm saying we should be together more. My cousin Ethel just offered me her house to rent. It's closer to the office than my place or yours. It's a house, not an apartment, so there's more space for two people. It's a nice neighborhood, and has better parking. I was going to ask if you thought we were ready to take that step of living together. I just thought I would hold off discussing it until after you got your reinstatement. One big event at a time, you know?"

Whether it was the suggestion that they live together or something else, she did not know, but the sudden clench in his jaw and the wash of red that came over his face made her take a cautious yet involuntary step backward.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

"Hey, Boss," Tony entered the squad room wearing a puzzled expression as he continued to ponder Abby's secret affair. "Still here, Ducky?"

The medical examiner stood beside Gibbs' desk wearing a displeased expression that was rarely seen on his face except when Palmer got them lost on their way to a crime scene. As Tony surveyed the rest of the room he noted that Bishop was gone. McGee was still MIA; although, considering the sun had long ago set, it seemed likely he was simply done for the day. Gibbs was still around, which was hardly surprising. The man seemed to be present nearly every hour of the day at some point.

"Where have you been?" Gibbs demanded.

"Just stretching my legs," Tony replied. "All that sitting and waiting for the paper work in Arlington did a number on my back. You know, when you get that tight feeling right about where you're…"

He paused in mid explanation as he could see from the man's expression he did not care. Pain, to Gibbs, was a badge of honor. Complaining about it got you nowhere with him.

"Have you spoken to McGee?" Gibbs asked.

"Uh… not today," Tony shook his head. "I was in Arlington most of the day on the canvas for anyone who might have seen Hanson and his wife leave that bar on Sunday. I didn't get back until after McGee… Well, I heard he got a little McMouthy and was sent to timeout in the cyber unit by Vance. Boss, for what it's worth, it's probably not McGee's fault that it happened. He's not in the best of moods lately, and I kind of understand why now. See, Abby's dating someone, and you know what that does to him. Did you know that by the way—that she's dating someone? 'Cause I gotta say, I missed it entirely."

Gibbs and Ducky exchanged a look that Tony found odd but read as meaning that neither were overly surprised. He shrugged wondering why his own radar for something like this was so far off. Then again, he was spending most of his free time in the office working on sifting through the updates from Parsons and going over the shreds of evidence he and Bishop had already collected for the two (possibly converging) cases in San Francisco and Afghanistan along with the tentative link to a DEA agent who had the misfortune of letting the man who killed Gibbs' family slip through his fingers near 25 years earlier.

"Well, McGee apparently knows so that's probably why he's been sulking," Tony continued. "I was worried it was something more, but I'm thinking now that the guy just can't catch a break this year. Loses his Dad, nearly loses his life, and then loses his eternal crush and his field status all not too far apart. It's gotta drag a guy down."

Ducky nodded at Gibbs, letting him know that he still firmly disagreed with his directive for Abby not to reach out to McGee. Even if Gibbs did not understand their relationship, it was a tool he might use to locate his wayward agent.

"Call her," Ducky said. "Tell her you need her help and why."

Gibbs nodded then lifted his phone as he prepared to dial the lab. Tony watched still puzzled by what Gibbs and the doctor were discussing but felt he could be helpful all the same.

"If you're calling Abby, don't call the lab," he offered. "Call her cell. She left a while ago for a date with the mysterious lover boy, according to one of Abby's Angels."

"She what?" Gibbs barked with a sharp glare at Tony. "How long ago?"

He shrugged his ignorance as Gibbs began dialing her cellphone number only to have it go directly to voicemail. He slammed his phone back into the cradle as Tony answered.

"I don't know," Tony replied. "More than an hour, I guess. Why?"

"Find her," Gibbs said as he grabbed his keys and started toward the elevator. "You call me when you do."

Tony open his mouth to ask another question but halted as Ducky hurried after Gibbs while wearing a perturbed but worried expression. The medical examiner waited with the supervisory agent at the elevator doors.

"I told her to stay away," Gibbs growled. "I ordered her."

"Abigail is not under you command—particularly where her heart is concerned," Ducky said. "If anyone can get through to Timothy right now, she is probably the one. He has always turned to her in times of personal anxiety or confusion. He'll be alright if he is prepared to see he has not fully healed yet."

"I'm not just worried about him," Gibbs muttered. "He got a little aggressive in Vance's office and then he bit the head off that polygraph lady who tried to stalk him for a date a few years back. Duck, someone pushes the wrong button in the wrong way right now, he might…"

"Lash out?" Ducky said sternly. "I suspect a verbal drubbing would be the worst of it from his part; however, considering Timothy's extensive vocabulary, polite and proper though most of it is, could prove tenuous depending on who it happens with and that person's the reaction."

Gibbs sighed and shook his head. This was not how the plan was supposed to work. McGee was supposed to take his medicine in the form of his rejection by Vance, then he was supposed to simmer at his desk for Gibbs to arrive. It was anticipated the younger agent would argue his case only to receive a stern discussion about getting appropriate counseling for post trauma victims. Departing for another section of the agency without talking to Gibbs was not supposed to happen. Disappearing altogether while Gibbs was off taking custody of a murder suspect and turning off his cellphone to prevent being traced was absolutely not part of the plan. Gibbs explained this to Ducky as further support for his growing concern as the elevator opened and both men entered it.

"Well, you're partly to blame for that," Ducky huffed although he kept most of his ire out of his voice while still conveying his frustration as the doors slid closed. "You orchestrated, both directly and indirectly, the two greatest stressors on him today. Jethro, I pass no judgement on the merits and successes of your much hailed gut instincts; however, you dabbled in a world you don't know enough about to even try something like this. The human psyche is both stronger and more fragile than most people realize. Predicting how any one person will react to circumstances requires a great deal of study and a bit of luck. I know you meant well and that your desire was to help him, but not everyone conforms to your school of reactions, Jethro. Timothy is not a Marine. While there is no doubt he has learned a great deal from you, you must remember that he is a person onto himself outside of this office with thoughts and feelings and actions you cannot control despite your best intentions."

"So what now?" Gibbs asked.

"Well, foremost at the moment, is to find Abby and make sure she is not in the middle of any unpleasant situation which she cannot handle," Ducky explained. "While you are doing that, I'll reach out to Dr. Cranston. I know she was reluctant to work with Timothy due to his connection to Caitlyn, but I suspect this is an exceptional case in which she will agree that her prior knowledge could prove valuable. With any luck, today's drama could turn into nothing at all, or…"

"Or what?" Gibbs asked.

"Well, I'm sorry to say this, but the alternative is that you may have pushed your agent to a breaking point with serious consequences," Ducky informed him gravely as the doors slid open to the lobby. "Find him, Jethro. There has been enough damage done to that boy already. Choose your words carefully."

"What do I say when I find him?" Gibbs asked.

"I suggest you start with the truth," Ducky said flatly. "There are several you've kept from him. If you want to ease into it, let him know that you do give a damn about him and then work your way into the dark discoveries of the last few months."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _McGee's Apartment_**

Abby blinked as she gaped at McGee. She had heard his words and understood them, she just didn't know what to think. More importantly, she didn't know how to react. What he said to her was not something that should be said in retaliation—and that was the only way she could describe his behavior.

"There is a lot more going on with you right now than I understand," she said. "Timmy, you're not making sense. I mean, you are and I get it, but this is coming out of nowhere and it's…"

"Crazy?" he offered as his voice cracked with hints of fear.

"No," she shook her head. "Chaotic—like not the good kind. You spent the first few minutes I was here telling me that I should just leave and making it sound like we're breaking up and then go you and say…"

"That I want to marry you," he finished her sentence.

He had thrown that at her when she insisted nothing he could say would make her leave. He figured the ultimate in commitment topics would prove her wrong and make her leave. However, that did not happen. She did not flinch. Well, not much. She blinked and gaped and looked a little dumbstruck, but she didn't suddenly remember she needed to be somewhere else. She just stood there, looking at him with a blank (yet not scared) expression. It unnerved him because that was absolutely not what he expected.

"What are you saying exactly?" she asked carefully.

"I'm not proposing to you, Abby," he growled, further angered that she wasn't leaving yet also deeply glad she wasn't, which just deepened his growing confusion for the day. "I just said that's what I want someday with you. Except, I also I know that you don't want that. So if we're never going to agree on that, why are we even together?"

Abby could not find words for several moments. This was not the most relevant topic on her radar at the moment considering he seemed to be unravelling for an unknown reason right in front of her eyes.

"So you're only saying that to scare me away?" she questioned. "McGee, can you hear what you're saying? Why are you doing this? You don't scare people to get your way. That's not who you are. Honey, I know something's bothering you, but I can't help you with it if you don't tell me what it is."

He was fidgeting in an agitated way. His cheeks were flushed and he had an angry, almost wild, look to his eyes. Abby reached forward to stroke his cheek and got her hand batted away. She took a step back in surprise. The logical part of her mind, the one that worked on evidence of violence all day long, told her this was the moment to walk away and that she was in a danger zone, yet everything in her heart and every part of her that knew McGee to his very core told her the thing to fear was McGee's wellbeing not her own.

"What's making you so upset?" she asked calmly.

McGee swallowed and ran his hands through his hair as he stepped away from her, adding distance between them. His expression as he looked at her was horrified. He lowered his voice an apologized.

"I'm so sorry," he said in a shaky voice unable to look at her. "I shouldn't have done that. I didn't mean to; I'm just… I'm having a bad day. I shouldn't have snapped at you for it. None of this is your fault. Abby, right now, you're the only thing that's good and working in my life and the only one I can trust. Please leave so that I don't do something to ruin that, too."

Abby shook her head and held up her hands as she approached him slowly and cautiously, like she would a scared animal backed into a corner.

"Timmy, I've told you this already: I'm not leaving," she said. "Now, tell me what happened. I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong."

"It's over… my career," McGee said in a listless voice as he stared distantly at nothing. "Vance won't reinstate me. He doesn't want me back because Dr. Wolf, and Gibbs too I guess, think I'm broken. I told them all that there's nothing wrong with me. There can't be anything wrong with me. There just… there can't be. I'm fine. Really. I'm fine."

Those two words. She heard them from him often and usually found no reason to doubt them, until now. She was reminded of a bumper sticker she saw each morning on her neighbor's car: I'm F.I.N.E.: **_F_** _reaked out,_ _ **I**_ _nsecure,_ _ **N**_ _ervous and_ _ **E**_ _motional_. It might be a joke to give fellow motorists a chuckle, but it was an apt description of what she saw in front of her. Abby cautiously stepped forward and embraced him, feeling his body radiating heat like he had a fever. His muscles were rigid and unyielding to her touch for a moment until he slumped and melted into her hug.

"What did they tell you exactly?" she asked in a voice just above a whisper. "Why didn't Vance sign your papers?"

Part of him wanted to say nothing, another part of him wanted to sob. In the end, he heard himself repeating some of what Vance said. Each word stabbed at him, making his head and heart sink lower. He expected soothing sounds and encouragement from Abby in the form of her disagreeing with Wolf's assessment. After all, she knew him better than anyone at the office did. She paid attention to him. She listened. She understood.

He got something else instead.

"Hon, I think you need to consider what Dr. Wolf reported," she said and found herself suddenly standing apart from him as McGee stepped away and glared at her with a betrayed expression. "I don't think he's entirely wrong."

If not for the hurt and fear flooding his eyes, his sudden movement away from her might have scared her. However, it did not. Instead, it made her heart break. What he did next drew her mouth into a flat line and made her feel a wave of guilt of her own that she did not see this sooner. It also startled her how swiftly he put his mask in place to side step the discussion.

"Did you say you were moving?" he asked abruptly, his voice changing in tone and pitch as though he was not on the verge of tears a moment earlier. "You mentioned Ethel and a house. That's your cousin Ethel, the one who really isn't your cousin or named Ethel? He's the transgender who used to live downstairs from you a few years ago, right?"

The drastic shift in the conversation found her shaking her head. Yes, all the information he imparted was true, but she was not going to allow this tactic to work any longer. He had pulled it on her numerous times in recent weeks, although to a much lessor scale, but she could not allow it to go on.

"Stop doing that," she ordered. "McGee, every time I ask you a question or say something you want to avoid, you change the subject. I've let it go because it didn't seem all that important lately, but this is different. We're not doing that anymore. We're talking about you and whatever happened today. You said Vance won't reinstate you because of Dr. Wolf's report. What are you going to do to change that?"

McGee scoffed and looked away, not wanting to approach that subject—especially when there was something much more pleasant to be discussing.

"Maybe I don't want an agent anymore anyway," he offered with a shrug as his voice took on a passive aggressive ring. "I've been thinking since I got home that if they don't trust me when I've been honest with them from the start of this process, then maybe it's time for me to move on. You know, my father always said I was capable of a lot more than I was doing with NCIS. I don't really enjoy the work that much or most of the people anymore either so I'm thinking it's time for a change anyway."

Abby hung her head and was on the verge of pulling her hair out as (not surprisingly) the belligerent wisdom of John McGee joined the discussion as though it was the golden and desirable solution. She knew if McGee, the thoughtful and rational man she knew as Tim McGee, could see and hear this discussion, he would not recognize himself. Petty and childish were not emotions Abby ascribed to McGee, but that was how he sounded in that instant. Still, she would have welcomed those emotions from him if there was nothing behind them other than fatigue; however, she feared the truth was something more dangerous. She felt tears well up in her eyes as she realized the kind of confusion and pain he must be feeling.

"I'm certain your father did say that to you, but that doesn't make it true," she offered.

"He was a smart man," McGee defended. "He was very successful; he didn't made a lot of mistakes in his life."

"He spent your lifetime keeping his distance from you," Abby offered. "Sounds like a colossal and repeated mistake to me."

McGee continued as though she had not spoken, frustrating her all the more and making her ache on his behalf even more deeply.

"He told me NCIS was a waste of my time and all of my education more than a few times," he continued. "It turns out he was right all along."

"You don't believe he was right," she offered and received a scoff and the flip of a hand brushing off her response. "McGee, you've never believed he was right about your choices. He didn't know what you do; he didn't understand you—he never even tried. I know you miss him, and he's been on your mind a lot lately. He was your father and that's okay, but he wasn't the sole and unquestionable authority on who you are and what is right for you. You wanted to be an NCIS agent all your life. This is what you wanted to do and to be."

"Rule 51," McGee he replied in an arrogant tone. "I was wrong. Now, I know that he was right."

"That's a lie," Abby shook her head. "You don't know that; you don't believe that."

Her instinct was to call Gibbs; however, she knew doing so would backfire. Gibbs could not reason with McGee or glare him into submission at this point. This didn't even seem to be an instance in which Penny could sooth or cajole him into hearing logic. This was more like Sarah lashing out against the world because she was scared when her brother was hurt and she feared losing him. Abby looked at McGee appraisingly as her mind scrambled to figure out what to do.

 _You're alone in this_ , Abby told herself. _This is on you. It's like an evil spell that needs to be broken, but here there is no magic. There's just you. Your only weapon is your history—everything you know about him and everything you've been through in the past. Use it. Use it all, even if it hurts or scares you._

"I don't know what worries me more right now," she said as her throat tightened with anxiety. "That I think you're lying but you don't realize that you are, or that you're not lying which means I don't know when you're telling the truth. I believed you a few minutes ago when you said you want to be with me for the rest of our lives, but now I don't know if you meant that."

The comment had the desired effect. The aggressive stance and expression melted instantly and a hurt look washed over his face. One of things she knew McGee feared most was losing her. She hated using that against him, but she fully understood her importance to him. Threatening that was a sufficient shock to snap him out of the downward spiral he appeared to be in throughout the conversation so far.

"You don't mean that," he said in a shaky voice so that it sounded more like a fearful question than a confident statement challenging her assertion.

"I do," Abby explained. "I think you just lied to me now when you said you don't care if you stay with NCIS, but I noticed that your voice and expression were the same as when you said you loved me and wanted to marry me. So now I don't know what to think. That has me worried because I thought I could trust you to always tell me the truth, McGee."

She felt terrible saying it and even worse as she saw the impact it had on him, but if it was the only tool to break through the armor he was wearing to hide how he was feeling, she was determined to use it. What worried her mostly was how much damage might be done in the process of breaking through to him.

"Of course, I meant it," he gasped. "Abby, you know I feel that way about you. You know I wouldn't lie about that."

"Then swear with the same conviction that nothing is wrong, that you don't care about your career and that there isn't a single, sliver of a chance that something else is bothering you and making you act like someone I don't know," Abby said. "Don't just say the words, McGee. Mean them. Convince me, but just know this: If you do convince me that you don't care about your career and don't want to be an agent any more, then that means you're not the man I thought you were."

McGee gaped. It was an impossible scenario. Convince her he was telling the truth about not caring about his career but lose her in the process because he was now someone she didn't want to know. Or, he could accept that he was lying and… lose her because it meant he was damaged enough that the office was basically throwing him away, and therefore (logically) so should she.

Abby painfully watched him struggle with trying to wrestle internally with his options. Neither choice seemed palatable to him. She took that as a good sign, as difficult as it was to watch. He did not want to admit he wasn't fine and face whatever fears and wounds were harming him. He shook his head and tried to avoid answering by rapidly explaining that whatever she heard at the office was being blown out of proportion. He claimed it was a simple matter of him not being willing to jump through hoops for people who didn't seem to know him or what he could do. They were convinced he was broken based on very little evidence, but no amount of facts he provided would change their minds.

Abby shook her head as she watched his mind spinning, weaving creative logic with half-formed explanations and robust excuses together as though they were facts laid before a jury.

"Two choices," she said firmly holding up two fingers signaling his limited choices. "Lying or not lying. I've known you were experiencing stress and anxiety about getting back to work, but I didn't realize until today that you're hurting like this. I'm sorry I didn't know that sooner. I believe in you, Timmy. I know this thing will not beat you if you face it and deal with it. Right now, you're running away from it. You've spent a lot of time lately telling me about the grand lessons your father taught you. Tell me this: Did the Admiral teach you to be a coward and run away from your problems? Do you think he would he be proud of you right now?"

The words hit him like a brick to the head. McGee looked at her with wary eyes. She was upset, but not the angry kind of upset. She was on the verge of tears, but he could not figure out why. They were not precisely fighting, yet there was sorrow in her face and her voice to a level that made him ache and want to do something, anything, to fix it. Only, he did not know how. His only response was a listless shrug accompanied by a barely perceptible shake of the head.

"What I see is you giving up, and that's not the way the Timothy McGee that I know and love would act," Abby shook her head. "Are you still that man?"

"I'm not crazy," he said in a small and uncertain voice. "My mind isn't weak or broken. It's just… it's been a bad day."

Abby gazed at him thoughtfully and could see that was the greatest part of his resistance to seeing reason and logic—two things he normally cherished and latched onto for security and comfort. He was afraid people thought he wasn't up to the job because he was considered weak. The other part of the equation was that he was beginning to feel that way and doubt himself.

"No one is saying you're weak," she assured him as she gently took his hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "You're hurting and suffering because of it. You need to heal. You went through something terrifying, something that nearly killed you, but you managed to survive. That's not the sign of someone who is weak."

She gazed at him thoughtfully for a moment then embraced him. For a few seconds he remained rigid then enfolded her into his arms s as his body shuddered.

"I'll help you as much as I can," she promised. "But you also need to talk to someone, a professional, about this. Will you do that?"

He muttered about not needing to talk to anyone else. He claimed he felt better and would continue to improve once he just put this day behind him. Abby listened for a few seconds then shook her head in disagreement.

"That's not going to fix anything," she told him. "Tim, there are professionals who can help you. It's nothing to be ashamed of. I've needed some help before, too. Do you judge me because of that?"

"Can we just stop talking about this?" he pleaded in a last ditch effort to end the topic. "I'd rather just talk about anything else right now. Okay? We can talk about it again some other time. I promise. Just not now. It's not a good time. Please."

She had been prepared for that evasion. Again, her stomach twisted with fear as she stepped back to look at him fully in the eyes and played the last and most dangerous and damaging card in her hands.

"What do you want to talk about?" she asked. "Our future? Okay. Here's what I have to say about that: If you refuse to get some help for how you're feeling, then we're done talking about a future together because we will have none."

"What?" he asked in a worried and confused voice. "What do you mean?"

"If you won't deal with what is going on with you, I don't see how we can have anything between us at all," she said.

He locked eyes with her as the color drained from his face.

"You said you wouldn't leave," McGee said hearing the crack and tremble in his voice.

He was certain the floor was about to give way and the rest of the universe was going to be torn in two. He might have feared all along that their relationship might fall apart, but he certainly never wanted that to happen. He had grown quickly and deeply attached to her presence outside the office. He was reluctant to admit, but he even slept better when she was around. The vexing dream of his father that often plagued him rarely visited when Abby was with him during the long, dark hours. She was like a voodoo charm warding off troubling thoughts.

"I won't leave Timothy McGee, but right now you're not him," she said. "I want him back and the only way for you to do that is to make the choice to get him back. So here's the question for you: Are you going to call someone now, or am I leaving for good?"

He looked at her with a pale and defeated face. It did not appear that she wanted to leave, but the choice she was giving him was bitter in his mouth and made him quake in his bones. It raised the question stabbing at him since he heard Vance's summary of Wolf's report.

"What if I'm too broken to fix?" he whispered in a small voice that was as scared and nervous as she had ever heard him, but it was also the first time all evening that she felt hope because it was saturated with honesty. "What if I'm not strong enough to… get better?"

"Impossible for you," she said as she hugged him tightly again. "Honey, here is what I know about Timothy McGee for an absolute and incontrovertible fact: He is stronger than he realizes; he's braver than he knows, and there isn't anyone at the office who wants him to go away. They need you there, McGee, and more than that, they want you there. Now, what are you going to do?"

An hour later, they hadn't said much since he left a message with Cranston's answering service requesting to talk to her. McGee was beat from both built up fatigue and whatever emotional freefall he had that day. Abby managed to talk him into crashing on his bed to watch a bad scifi flick about killer Antarctic spiders while they waited for pizza to be delivered. She sat beside him neither paying the movie much attention nor pressing him for conversation.

"Why do you think this is going to turn out okay?" he asked quietly. His eyelids were heavy but he kept his focus on the TV screen.

"Because I know the second meaning of the word hope," she replied softly. "It means: Hold on pain ends."

He gave no reaction that she could see or hear. Several seconds later, she found out why when she felt his head list sideways onto her shoulder as he fell asleep. She doubted he would stay sleeping for long, but she was determined to let him rest as long as possible as it was evident to her that he was exhausted on many levels. Therefore, when there was a knock on the apartment door sometime later, she grabbed her wallet from her coat and hurried to the portal to keep the pounding from waking him.

As she pulled the door open, she did not find a pizza delivery guy.

"Gibbs?" she questioned upon seeing him and his worried expression in the hallway. "You're not moonlighting for Geonelli's Pizza are you?"

"Why aren't you answering your phone?" Gibbs barked as she stepped into the hall and shushed him.

"Shhh, inside voice, Gibbs," she scolded lightly. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you and McGee," he said surveying her as he relaxed upon determining nothing was wrong. "I've been trying to reach you."

Abby looked at him oddly then gasped as she reached into her pocket. She shrugged as she looked up and pulled out her phone.

"I turned it off when we were talking about some… heavy stuff," she said guiltily. "I didn't want to get interrupted. I guess I forgot to turn it on again. Why? Is something wrong?"

"You tell me," Gibbs said harshly. "Why are we in the hallway? Where is McGee?"

"McGee is asleep, and I don't think we should wake him," Abby replied blocking entrance to the apartment. "He needs the rest, and he had a bad day, which you knew but didn't tell me."

She fixed him with a perturbed stare that did not phase the supervisory agent in the least. He sighed with relief as the tension in his shoulders relaxed and he chalked another spot on insight into Ducky's column. While he was glad Abby had not found herself at ground zero for a blow up, Gibbs was also worried the problem simmering in his agent had been artificially doused yet again so that McGee could still avoid confronting it. Gibbs had suspected for a while that the only thing keeping McGee together had been Abby, as if she was a soothing tonic on his nerves delaying the discovery of the malady slowly plaguing him.

"Abby, this is about more than a few lost hours of sleep," Gibbs said simply. "He's not okay."

"I'm aware of that now," she replied. "He'll take care of it."

"He's been covering and faking it for weeks now," Gibbs shook his head. "He can't just _take care of it_ on his own."

"I know that, too," Abby said. "Gibbs, it's sweet that you came here for… whatever reason, but I've got this, okay? McGee's tired and agitated and hurt—in a few more ways than he wanted any of us to know—but he'll be okay. I know it."

Gibbs shook his head and sighed.

"Look, a nap isn't going to fix what's wrong, Abby," he said. "He needs to…"

"I know what he needs and so does he," she said feeling a little flicker of disappointment in the man for his attempt to steer her away from the situation earlier in the day. "Whatever this is, it isn't something a day off or sleeping late is going to cure. McGee knows that too… mostly. He has to do this for himself, but I can be there for him while he does."

Gibbs looked squarely in her eyes and saw a smattering of anger and an accusation that he should have dealt with this differently, but the longer her looked he saw sorrow more than anything else. He had no reply and any apology he might have considered simply would not sit well in his mouth after so many years of rebuking that action. It was not that he did not believe in the concept of forgiveness. He simply thought that actions were more valuable than words.

Abby could see all of that in his muddled expression. She sighed then through her arms around him and hugged him brusquely. Staying mad at Gibbs was impossible for her.

"I know you can't say you're sorry, but I can hear you all the same," she said. "Still, you really should try somehow—for McGee. You know, soon."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _NCIS Elevator_**

Once morning arrived, McGee went through his routine as he normally did. He sensed Abby watching him more closely and was not surprised when she insisted on driving him into the office that day. She would be accompanying him to an appointment in the early afternoon—partly as a show of support and partly to keep him from back out of it.

The hands on his watch alternated between racing through the minutes to crawling slowly through the hours. When the time had nearly arrived to depart for his appointment, McGee left the cyber unit and walked across the street to the main building. He took the elevator to the third floor. He had no opportunity to see if Tony and Bishop were at their desks because the doors slid open to reveal Gibbs standing in front of them. McGee blanched in surprise but said nothing as his boss stepped into the car without speaking to him. He eyed McGee oddly as he did not get out of the elevator. The doors slid closed as the senior agent him the button for the lobby.

McGee did not want to shut down the power and let the discussion linger so he merely cleared his throat. He kept his eyes forward as he spoke, unable to look this boss.

"The director never said if I was to change who I report to while I'm working in the cyber unit," he began. "I just came to the squad room to let you know that I'm leaving the base for a while."

He knew he could have sent the information in email, but he didn't want to write it down. Putting it into an electronic record somehow made it more real and something that could be brought up again. At least spoken words, unrecorded by anything other than a memory, disappeared onto the air.

"Uh huh," Gibbs grunted while keeping is eyes straight forward as the car began to descend.

"I've got a meeting in Georgetown, an appointment actually," McGee said, hearing his voice sound feeble and afraid. "It's with Rachel Cranston."

Calling her by her first name rather than by her title somehow made it easier to say for McGee. Gibbs gave no reaction.

"I don't know how long this will take," McGee said, trying but failing to lift his eyes from staring at the floor. "Or if it will do any good."

Gibbs looked across the space between them and saw the defeated slump in his agent's shoulders as well as the fear and worry clouding his eyes. He lifted his hand and then pat the back of his agent's head gently.

"Stick with it, Tim," he said easily. "You're going to be okay."

McGee heard the word and felt the contact just as an immense lump the size of a baseball welled up in his throat that attempted to swallow unsuccessfully. While he struggled to find his voice, he was able to lift his chin slightly as the cold knot of fear in his chest loosened a bit. As his words continued to fail him, he found he was only able to nod his understanding of Gibbs' offering.

"You going alone?" Gibbs asked.

"No, Abby's taking me," McGee replied softly with a strained voice. "Do I need to check in when I get back?"

"No," Gibbs said pointing his own eyes forward again. "But if you need anything, you know where to find me."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** _More to come…_


	31. Chapter 31

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Georgetown Offices of Dr. Rachel Cranston_**

McGee sat in the leather armchair near the window facing the quiet, narrow street. He was not yet what he could call "comfortable" in this office even after several visits; however, he found he was finally able to at least sit still during the hour-long sessions. He no longer fidgeted in his seat or kept stealing glances at his watch to see how much time remained before he could leave.

So far, in this session (his fourth), they had primarily covered how he was fairing with his interactions with his superiors. For the most part, he had good things to report. He had apologized to Vance that morning, something the man said he appreciated but that also was not necessary. The director had let McGee know that he had full confidence in the agent's ability to be reinstated in the future, and that he was pleased McGee had taken steps to make that happen. As for Gibbs, since McGee relocated to the cyber unit to work on the pirated laptop for his daily work, the Boss come to see him every few days—once even bringing coffee to McGee—for in-person updates on his progress with the encrypted data. Gibbs never mentioned or asked about the appointments with Cranston. Still, McGee knew the man's visits were to check on him; each visit was Gibbs' own assessment on his agent's progress.

And McGee was starting to feel like Gibbs' agent again. Slowly.

It wasn't so much that he was doing his usual job again or working with the team currently; it was more that he felt more like himself. As much as he hated to accept it, McGee now recognized that he was not ready to go back to the field—yet—and that Dr. Wolf, Gibbs and Vance had been right about things being "off" with him. Cranston had thankfully not offered a diagnosis of PTSD so far; however, she was circling around Stress Response Syndrome. After a little independent research of his own, McGee had regretfully accepted that seemed to fit how he was feeling and behaving.

He wasn't as fine as he wanted people (or himself) to believe. He also wasn't winning any acting awards as he had not convinced anyone who had interacted with him recently that he was okay. The difference that day, from when he was first confronted with that information, was that he wasn't mad at anyone for pointing it out. In fact, he felt a bit guilty for resisting their observations. Although it caused him momentary flares of anxiety to think about it, if Abby hadn't given him the dire ultimatum of leaving him if he refused to seek Cranston's help he dreaded what might have happened to him because he could now that he was not quite the person he had been prior to Afghanistan.

He questioned himself too much—more even than when he was truly a probie; he hesitated on little things when he should simply act on them. He found he could not concentrate on anything for very long. Sustaining focus for long periods was difficult as his mind kept straying to odd things like seals on evidence bags, manifest logs in the evidence garage and a helicopter crossing vast stretches of water-each image would flash in his mind and leave him feeling shaken and sick for the rapidity of their appearance and the swirling way they blurred together. Normal sounds fractured his attention, like a keyboard clacking beside him. He found himself zoning out occasionally as well with his thoughts straying to the shadowy room from his dreams where his father scolded him. The hardest moments were when sudden flashes, like clips from a movie he could not recall seeing, that would invade his drifting thoughts; the images streaked through his mind too quickly for him to recognize, but they left him with a breathless sensation and made his heart hammer.

He also found he got frustrated when he knew he should be calm about a small setbacks when trying to work on the pirated laptop. Typical delays, like waiting for the computer to finish a virus sweep or waiting for the elevator to arrive, pushed his patience to its limit. As much as he had denied needing any counseling previously, since starting his sessions with Cranston two weeks earlier, McGee had noticed a change in his over all calmness (mostly that he seemed to be regaining it). He still had the disturbing dream of his father and anxious feelings in his chest still ambushed him without warning, but he did not fear them any longer. McGee was still worried by them, but worry was a far different and easier to deal with feeling than fear, he decided.

"So you're still slogging through your in-house assignment with a computer," Cranston surmised from the little McGee had been able to tell her in an earlier part of the discussion. "Are you working with anyone on that?"

"No, most of the technicians in the cyber unit avoid me," McGee admitted. "That's what they usually do to agents—those who carry badges and guns anyway. They tend to have an inferiority/superiority attitude about agents. Most of them think agents aren't tech savvy enough to understand what they do, but they're also kind of have badge and gun envy. It's a little creepy and annoying somedays. Of course, I'm not like other agents because… well, I understand what they do and how they do it, and I can actually… well…"

"Do what they do better than them?" Cranston pointed out and received half-hearted shrug followed by a bashful nod. "You've worked with that unit before so they know you differently."

"Doesn't mean they like me being there," McGee said with a roll of his eyes. The doctor looked at him questioningly. "It's childish… petty even. See, there's two CalTech guys in there. It's a school rivalry thing. I don't care about it, but they do; of course, I went to MIT and it's the better school so I'm not intimidated by them."

"And they're the childish ones?" Cranston wondered with a smirk that prompted an embarrassed blush from McGee, but he shook it off as she simply smiled and waved for him to continue.

"None of the computer techs see me as one of them, regardless of education, and that's okay with me because I'm not one of them," he said. "It's actually kind of funny getting shunned by a room of geeks. They don't see the humor or the futility in what they're doing."

Cranston raised her eyebrows in an unspoken question. McGee nodded.

"They're all way more introverted than I am so it's hard to tell when they're ignoring me versus when they're afraid I might talk to them," he explained.

He fought a grin from fully erupting on his face—the first that the doctor had seen since she started meeting with McGee for these sessions. It was a good, positive sign, something she would have expected from him previously when differentiating himself from those whose primary skill was simply deciphering the ones and zeroes that made computers work.

"And why would they be ignoring you?" she wonder. "No love for MIT in any of them?"

McGee shook his head.

"No, they're just not happy Vance has me on this assignment," he replied. "They're territorial in the cyber basement. They think I should be doing my actual job, or well, anything job other than theirs. They're offended the director gave this to me. They seem fairly convinced that they would be able to break this code better and faster than I can."

"Are they right?" Cranston asked, looking up from her notes pleased to see a brief, reflexive smile grace his face before he buried it.

"No," he scoffed then pulled back on the bravado of the answer. "I don't care what Brian and Steven learned at CalTech. I'm convinced that the programmer who wrote these programs studied under my academic adviser at MIT so I understand how he thinks. This program's got what you might think of as a signature in his programming, and I can read his distinctive, um, penmanship, better than they can. I've used the language he used in the way he used it. It's not a typical programming style. It's unique."

"Like art?" she suggested. "Each artist can use canvas and brushes and paint, but a Renaissance master can't paint an Impressionist rendition?"

McGee sat rigidly in his chair for a moment then took a deep breath as he considered the analogy then nodded. Whether she understood any aspect of programming did not matter, she understood what he was saying and could articulate her comprehension. That was both good and bad. It was good in that he knew she was not misconstruing what he was saying. It was bad in that the way she expressed it sometimes summoned a ghost for him which made the discussions feel awkward occasionally. It was her voice. If McGee wasn't looking directly at Cranston when she would speak to him, her voice sometimes sounded a great deal like her sister's. More than once, it startled McGee and made his heart skip a beat (or two) to think Kate was addressing him.

"Uh, yeah," he replied hoping she did not notice his brief reaction to her voice.

The other bad part was Cranston's ability to tune in so precisely with him that she was also able to see things that McGee wished she did not notice.

"You twitched again," Cranston noted. "Are you going to tell me what makes you suddenly do that again?"

"No," he shook his head. "It's nothing important right now. I will tell you… at some point, but it doesn't matter right now. It's not about my answer or anything I said."

Her expression said she disagreed but her shrug followed by a nod indicated she would not push—yet. He worried she would think it was a reason not to find him fit for duty when the time came (whenever that would be), but what concerned him more was that if she learned the truth she would cease being his counselor.

"So, now to the million dollar question where we end most of our sessions: How have you been sleeping?" she asked. "Keep in mind I've pretty much learned your entire repertoire of tells. I'll know if you're giving me the truth."

McGee sighed. His _repertoire_ was fairly limited as far as he knew. He was bad a lying, horrible at it in fact. Sure, he could bluff from time to time when it came to putting pressure on suspect, but usually he pulled that off because he had some nugget of truth he could lean hard against to make his offerings believable. Even as a writer, he always struggled with complete fabrication. In the end, his success came from giving his narration of the truth just with some creative spin on dialogue and a few well-space plot twists for the sake of balance.

"It's still difficult some nights," he replied. "I can fall asleep just fine. That dream just comes back. I still don't understand why I'm having it. I've had it the last two nights anytime I close my eyes for very long."

"The one about your father accusing you of not solving a case," Cranston reiterated. She did not think they were ready to tackle the dream yet in their discussions as she was still piecing together what was going on with him during his waking hours. "So, I take it for the last two nights you've been alone? You've told me that you don't have the dream or at least don't remember having it when Abby is with you. Is she out of town or has something changed between the two of you?"

McGee shook his head and explained Abby's move over the weekend to a new neighborhood. She was adjusting to her new home and was still putting it in order. McGee helped as much as she would allow, but Abby was still expressing concern that he needed to take it easy and give himself more down time. He disagreed but found he had no effective counter argument for her other than the one she would not currently accept which was that he felt fine. Still, he had yet to spend a single night at her apartment or new home because of her bed. He did not see the coffin she used for slumber when she moved her furniture; then again, he had not been looking for it either. Sleeping in it was his one hesitation about spending the night at her new place. Even before he had faced his own possible death, he was not comfortable with her chosen bed.

"She actually wants me to talk to you about something," McGee said. "We've been discussing moving in together."

Cranston nodded, not entirely surprised by the news but interested that he was raising it during their session. Getting McGee to discuss anything personal was difficult. He held a firm belief that his personal life and his professional life should not overlap; that they usually did was often a point of some anxiety for him.

"That's a big step, if you're interested in doing that," Cranston offered. "Are you?"

McGee nodded then explained Abby's concern. She worried that any change in his life or routine at this point could have a negative impact on whatever progress he was making in his sessions with Cranston.

"She's not willing to take my word for it that moving in with her won't lead to mass inner chaos for me," McGee said with a chuckle. "I know that's probably not something I should laugh about, but I told her I didn't see how I could be any more of a mess inside than I was when I started this whole thing. She didn't think that was funny. Then she mentioned I should bring it up with you. So, there. I did."

He ended his offering with a note of finality, one that told Cranston that no matter what she said he was going to do whatever he wanted. Normally, that did not please or encourage her as a therapist; however, McGee was not an average patient. Taking the initiative and making a considerable life altering decision with confidence (rather than out of fear or anger) was a good sign.

"Well, her concern is noted and not without merit all things considered," the doctor nodded. "As you've already made up your mind, I'll just tell you that I don't normally recommend that someone experiencing your type of symptoms makes any drastic life changes; however, I also don't tell people to put their lives on hold while waiting for a magical report from me giving the all clear that they are _normal_ again. What most people think when they hear the word normal is overrated and a lot less common than people think. The question you should be asking is: Are you ready for this kind of a change?"

McGee shrugged. He thought he was. He and Abby had known each other for a very long time. They had plenty of ups and just as many downs in their friendship. They had driven each other to the brink of madness and sadness (and a few other 'nesses' probably) but never seriously damaged the foundation of their friendship. He loved her, and since she was the one who took the first step in both starting the relationship and now was the one asking for the living arrangements to change, he was feeling confident that she actually felt the same way about him.

"I actually don't see it as much of a change," he answered. "We've essentially lived together since August. We have similar spending habits so the sharing of expenses won't be a huge change other than it will save us both some money. The commute is easier for both of us. I know her pet peeves, and she knows mine."

"Do you ever fight?" Cranston asked. "Or is it all peaceful and smooth sailing all the time?"

McGee grimaced. He would like to say that it was complete bliss, but Cranston was good at knowing when he wasn't telling the whole truth. He and Abby still argued. They still got on each other's nerves once in a while. They pushed each other's buttons (sometimes intentionally, sometimes not). She didn't like it when he delayed coming to bed because he was involved in one of his online wargames. He got aggravated when she went into his operating system and altered the refresh rate when she knew very well he was going to do it himself at some point. He still didn't believe the word 'hinky' was a word, and she didn't appreciate his self-appointed role of grammar police when they started getting snippy with each other at the end of long days.

"That looks like a definite yes on your face," Cranston observed.

"We've agreed to disagree about a few things over the years and that's just not going to change," he said warily. "I don't think any of those things are all that important. I mean, they're important in the moment usually, or at least that's how it seems, but afterward it kind of doesn't seem that big of a deal. Our relationship isn't perfect, and we have a few bumpy moments now and then, but it feels real to me."

The doctor nodded, impressed and pleased by his final statement.

"That's the first time you've said how anything feels without me having to ask specifically about how you are feeling," she noted and smiled in a way that let him breathe easier. "Your default opening to most answers is normally ' _I think_.' Feeling and letting your feelings be known is hard—even in the best of times, which you have not been having. So, I've got to say I'm proud of you. You might have expressed it about a personal topic, but I can't think of a better instance to have feelings about. It might seem like a small thing, but I'm underlining that in my notes, Tim."

He looked at her skeptically. He was certain he had told her how he was feeling about any number of things previously. Perhaps she had prompted the answers, but he figured he probably would have gotten around to those details eventually.

"So you're impressed I used a new verb?" he remarked. "I'm sort of back to thinking these talks aren't doing as much as everyone hoped they would."

Cranston smirked at him as she shook her head.

"It goes a bit deeper than delving into your considerable vocabulary," she assured him. "It's indicative of a subtle shift in your confidence level in yourself. Feelings are more immediate than thoughts. For someone who has been repressing some fairly sharp and painful memories, admitting to them without hesitation is a sign of progress. Not to mention that the answer you just gave me was a very healthy and encouraging one. It was given freely and honestly—another good sign for someone who's been singing the _'I'm fine'_ song for quite a while. As for the content of your answer, between you and me: I worry about couples that don't argue. There's often a lot of dishonesty and angry feelings in those situations. So, I won't tell you if you should move in with Abby, but I certainly won't tell you that it will be detrimental to your mental well-being if you do. You're actually doing quite well over all and have shown considerable improvement in the last couple weeks. So now you're taking a big step to start moving forward with your life, taking a longstanding relationship to a new level. Big question: How do you feel about it?"

McGee looked down at his hands and considered his answer. He was a bit apprehensive. It had nothing to do with a lack of confidence in his compatibility with Abby. In fact, it was their suitability that concerned him.

"I'm a bit worried," he admitted. "I want to do this. Being able to see Abby more is good, but I don't want this to be all there is. Living together is a huge step for Abby. She's kind of has a commitment-phobia usually. After all, her longest standing relationship is with a piece of lab equipment."

"Major Masspec," Cranston nodded. "She speaks about him often whenever I do see her."

"Exactly," McGee agreed. "She asked me to move in. That's huge for her. I just hope she doesn't regret it. Abby has fears about permanence, and sometimes that makes her need her space. She says she really wants us to do this and I believe her, but if this is the most committed she can be then that's a problem for me. Just signing a lease isn't my idea of a long-term, personal commitment."

Cranston nodded. His worry wasn't with the relationship falling apart due to the shared quarters but rather with it stagnating there with an inability to grow into something else, something more permanent in the future.

"I'm encouraged, if not surprised, by your long-term thinking," she offered as she looked casually at her watch. "When is the move?"

McGee replied that he had given his notice to his landlord and would be moving at the end of the month. Cranston made a note to keep that in mind as she continued her sessions with him. There was no set number for them. Their arrangement was open ended so that he could continue to be her patient until she was ready to certify him fit for duty. When that would be, neither knew. She was not ready to begin even considering that aspect. She believe slow and steady progress was the best approach at this point; official NCIS assessments would come later.

"Okay, the hour is up," she said. "Today, I've got homework for you to complete before our next session: Go back to the squad room."

McGee blinked and stared at her in silence. Noting his surprise, Cranston nodded encouragingly.

"You've been avoiding it and your teammates since you started working in the cyber unit," she said firmly. "Letting Gibbs come see if all your marbles are in the bag or spilled on the floor while you hide in the computer basement doesn't count."

"Is it really appropriate for you to make lost your marbles jokes with a patient that might be a little bit crazy?" he wondered.

Cranston smiled.

"The crazy ones never get the joke," she remarked. "I mean it about going back to your desk—and not when that room is empty. It's time to start healing some relationships. So here's what I want you to do when you do go back: Talk to Agent Bishop. I don't care what you talk about, just talk to her."

McGee swallowed dryly and nodded mechanically. He found when he thought about it, that he was no longer mad at Bishop so much as he was hurt by her lying to him. Still, going back to make nice felt awkward. If they all thought he was losing his mind and no longer trusted him, he would know it the moment he met their eyes. Cranston noticed his apprehension.

"I'm not telling you that you need to throw your arms around her and say all is forgiven or that you miss her friendship," she counseled.

"But I do," he said then shook his head as he elaborated. "I miss talking to her and being a part of the team. I realize that I can't know everything about whatever she is investigating, but… They don't trust me, and maybe they shouldn't. I just don't think I want to have them look at me in a way that proves they don't."

"You want them to trust you again," Cranston nodded understandingly. "That's a two way street, Tim. You need to trust them, and to do that you need to accept where you are right now in your recovery. You also need to forgive them. I'm not saying that will be easy or that it will happen quickly, but you need to take the first step by no longer avoiding them. Go back to your desk and work on something, anything, for 30 minutes or so. While you're there, engage Agent Bishop in conversation for a few minutes. I don't care if it's about the weather or traffic or coffee. Just pick something easy and typical."

McGee smirked as he scoffed.

"Easy and typical?" he repeated. "Kate obviously never told you what passes for regular conversation in that room. Tony alone can be…."

His voice trailed off, and Cranston noted with interest that while McGee's words had a slight edge to them there was less of one in his eyes. She sensed a longing to reassume his role as sidekick and support for the gregarious agent. They were an interesting and perplexing parting, Tony and McGee. She had been fascinated by the duo since her sister first began telling her stories of them—tales that reminded her greatly of the way two of their brother's (the oldest and the youngest) interacted. To see the Tony/McGee dynamic in person had been both a treat and an education in itself.

"Let's just focus on Agent Bishop for now," Cranston said. "There is one blight in your brief history with her. That should make putting your working relationship with her back on its feet smoother. Tony is another story. If you want to talk to him, by all means do so, but I'm not sure you're ready to confront him with how you've been feeling. Don't avoid him if you see him, but I'm not asking you to seek him out. You two have a complicated relationship even in the best of times, and it has suffered a wound of its own. It's going to take more than a talk about the weather to put things right again between you two."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Office of the Inspector General_**

Parsons finished summarizing his briefing paper for Tony and Bishop—handing the sole printed copy of it to Tony in a sealed envelope for delivery to Gibbs. The hour long meeting was short on new details but long on theories.

"So what you're telling me is that there are drugs overseas, and they're coming into the US," Tony said with a sarcastic tone. "Wow. What a revelation. I did not know any of that. Have you considered taking a job in law enforcement? We could use guys with smarts like yours."

Parsons' stared at him with a pale and flat expression. Bishop chewed her lip to keep from smirking as the two men tried to stare each other down.

"If I used words too big for you, perhaps Agent Bishop can draw you a picture to explain it better when you go back to your office for a nap," Parsons replied. "Look, I can't give you all the details I have yet because I'm still waiting for warrants to go and get the evidence to prove the specifics about most of what I'm telling you is happening. US Navy ships are being used to ferry an unknown but sizeable quantity of drugs out of various locations; this ring appears to have been in operation in one form or another for more than 20 years. It's gone undetected for the most part. That concerns me because it's one hell of a cover up; someone with a lot of influence helped shield this thing for a long time."

Tony snorted and was simply thankful that the man didn't add the drug running was aided (and possibly abetted) by federal law enforcement at several points. Surely it had to have been-not that Tony was worried about any present-day NCIS personnel that he knew, but the existence of the ring made the agency look bad that the only time they ever got close to this trafficking operation was when they busted the low level dealers and the hapless users.

"When do we talk to Johnson?" Tony asked. "He was involved at the start."

He felt a special anger at the former DEA agent because he played a role in Pedro Hernandez being around to kill Shannon and Kelly Gibbs. It amazed Tony that Gibbs himself wasn't taking a more pointed interest in that part of the investigation. Then again, Tony couldn't be certain the man wasn't making inquiries of his own apart from Parsons' investigation.

"We call that speculation in this office," Parsons reminded him. "Speculation leads to premature arrests and fatal process flaws."

"Well, in the real world where we catch the bad guys in less than 20 years' time per crime, we call that a lead," Tony replied. "Leads can prompt an arrest which will then, when you prosecuting types finally get around to your precious paperwork, will result in a prosecution."

Parsons' took the jab well, half sneering/half-smiling. He turned his eyes to Bishop and issued is marching orders on behalf of the investigation.

"Leave the retired DEA Agent off your radar… for now," Parsons commanded. "The same goes for Mr. Renner. I'll have my assistant call him and ask him a few innocuous questions and leave the door open for further discussion, but I don't want you talking to him until I know more about what we should ask him. He's more important than you realized, and I want don't want to rouse his suspicions."

"A moment ago you mentioned influence being exerted," Bishop said. "What kind of influence? Political?"

She felt appointees were never involved with the agency long enough to control or hide a multi-decade operation. Tony kept his eyes on Parsons as he answered his partner's question sourly.

"He meant brass," Tony said deciphering what Parsons was not yet saying. "He means there is at least one high ranking officer involved."

"Or there was," Parsons nodded. "Something obvious changed in the way the ring works because they got sloppy. It's as if someone in the chain of command dropped out because now the operation is slightly exposed."

Bishop honed in on the hint and stared hard back at the prosecutor.

"You're not investigating Admiral McGee are you?" she asked. "He died months before we knew about any of this. You don't think he's the one? He's not involved in any of this, is he?"

She dreaded the answer but knew the question needed to be asked. Her memory of McGee's face as he accused her of looking into his late father still haunted her.

"I'm not ready to say who is and who isn't a possible suspect, but at this time John McGee is not the focus of my inquiries," Parsons replied.

Tony scoffed at the answer and as he leaned forward and eyed the special prosecutor darkly.

"Admiral," Tony said stiffly. "The man was a flag officer who died on active duty while still holding the highest rank in the Navy. If he's not a suspect or a person of interest, then he's Admiral McGee when you speak of him, unless you were somehow a close personal friend and didn't think to disclose that."

Bishop slid her gaze to her teammate with interest. Tony's cold rebuke was odd. He rarely bothered with the stuffy protocol of the Navy during an investigation. Certainly, he called all sailors by their rank when addressing them in person, but no level of officer seemed to impress him sufficiently to be identified by anything more than a last name when not in front of him. Bishop smiled slightly as she realized the defense was not so much for the late officer as it was for the man's son, who would have been insulted to hear his father spoken of in any other way than properly.

" _Admiral_ McGee does intersect with my investigation, but so far that is mostly due to his son being a possible witness to a crime," Parsons replied tersely. "I will need to speak to him about that at some point as well."

"Doctor's orders," Tony shook his head. "Agent McGee still under the care of a professional and not available for discussion. Once he's cleared, you can talk to him. Gibbs will let you know."

Bishop held her tongue. She was not aware that McGee was being kept away from the investigation for his own health. Then again, from Tony's terse tone, it was possible he was simply keeping Parsons from interrogating McGee before Tony believed his partner could handle it. Since McGee's reassignment to the cyber unit a few weeks earlier, he had not been seen in the squad room. Gibbs was tight-lipped about it and Tony was flat out moody. Whatever they knew about McGee's condition, they were keeping it to themselves; although, Bishop was growing worried.

"I appreciate the severity of his injuries and the need for him to recover fully," Parsons said in a stiff manner that left Bishop thinking he knew more than she did about McGee's health. "Impress upon _Agent Gibbs_ that I do need to speak with Agent McGee and I will do so in as untaxing a manner as possible. In the end, this has direct bearing on his welfare. After all, part of what I am trying to determine is whether someone in this operation tried to have Agent McGee killed in Afghanistan several months ago."

That revelation jolted Bishop. She sat forward in her seat and gaped at the prosecutor's stern expression.

"Do you think Tim's in danger now?" Bishop asked. "A foreign national shot him, but are you saying someone ordered a hit? Will someone try again?"

Parsons' inhaled deeply and paused to consider his answer. His face grew stony.

"I know you got confessions from the two managers of Simocorp for their role in the security breech for the foreign national's vetting with the defense contractors," he replied obliquely without answering her questions. "I want you to take a look at that case again—the attack on Camp Foxtrot in May. Look at it without the Simocorp angle in your sights."

"That's not an answer," Tony said not deflected by the evasion. "Whatever McGee knows or saw has been with him most of his life. What changed to make him a target in May? Do we need to put him in protective custody?"

Parsons sighed then folded his hands. His face was uncertain despite the words of assurance he tried to offer.

"He's in no greater danger now than he was when he returned to the U.S. in May," he said. "It's not necessarily a bad thing that he is not a field agent at the moment. It's best for him, for a lot of reasons, if he stays close to home where the office is concerned. Your partner could use some downtime and keeping him on a base guarded by armed Marines for at least 8 hours each day to just work on a computer is not a bad thing."

Tony scoffed as he stood up and prepared to leave.

"I'd be careful with that confidence level," he said. "That kind of thinking didn't help him in Afghanistan, Dick."

"Not even my family calls me Dick," Parsons said.

"Don't bet on it," Tony nodded. "We'll let you know if we find anything."

Parsons scowled then dismissed them with a flip of his hand toward the door. The senior field had been toying with reviewing the Afghanistan evidence for a while now. They had investigated the shooting initially as a terrorist attack. Then they swiftly turned their attention to Burley's inquiry into a possible security breech at the camp involving civilian contractors. Tony had wondered if that was the whole story as both Simocorp managers, who were now starting their prison sentences, had denied paying the shooters to attack the Comm Center that morning. No money trail linking the men had ever been found nor had any hint of communication been unearthed.

He began formulating an attack plan as he walked out of Parsons' office with Bishop in tow. She followed him out of the building at a scurrying pace while clutching the envelope for Gibbs. Once outside in the weak September sunlight, she sighed as she sought direction.

"So what now?" Bishop asked. "Is McGee in danger or not?"

"Probably not at the moment," Tony sighed. "Parsons is right. If he was the target in Afghanistan, he's been without protection for months and nothing happened. I'll talk to Gibbs. He'll decide if that needs to change."

"Okay," she nodded walking in quick steps beside him toward their car. "Where does that leave us with the investigation?"

"My favorite place," Tony groaned behind is sunglasses. "Back at the beginning. Okay, new plan."

"We had an old plan?" she asked.

"Focus, Girl Probie," Tony snipped then pinched the bridge of his nose. "When we get back to the office, gather everything we've got from the attack in Afghanistan. I mean all the physical evidence, all the electronic stuff, all of it. Get it together."

"It is already together," Bishop said flatly. "It's in the evidence lockup."

"Well, then you've accomplished step one," Tony said. "I'd give you a snack, but I don't have any carrots in my pocket right now. I do have a container of cinnamon Altoids, but I think those burned a hole in my tongue so I am going to ask one of Abby's Angels to run a test on it for acid or something corrosive. I think someone tried to poison me."

Bishop folded her arms and waited with a perturbed expression. She was all for a friendly and casual atmosphere at the office, but she was still shouldering all the burden of being Tony's sidekick and she was not nearly as patient at McGee was. She sighed as she waited for him to get past his mint problem.

"Get everything pulled out and go through it again," Tony said. "We look at it with fresh eyes now that we know what Parsons knows, which isn't much more, but we might find something that we missed."

"I'll have it brought up from storage to the squad room," Bishop nodded as she pulled out her phone but Tony's hand flattened on the device.

"No," he shook his head. "Set it up down there. I don't want McGee making a trek to Vance's office and see us sorting through all of this."

Bishop scoffed at Tony's paranoid caution and the inconvenience of it. McGee was staying in the cyber unit most days and never seemed to venture to the squad room. Not that she blamed him. He had a rough revelation the last time he was there. And, considering what she observed when she saw him a day earlier when he arrived on base earlier in the week, he was not going to be wandering into their area looking for a lunch companion. It had surprised Bishop to see Abby kiss McGee after getting out of his car early one morning. What surprised her more was how odd it did not seem after a moment (once she got over the fact that she had been staring at them from her own car).

"He's avoiding the squad room and us, Tony," Bishop reminded him. "Besides, the garage is noisy, and I work better at my desk."

"That's nice, so you'll enjoy the quiet and the efficiency there when we're done looking at all this evidence in the garage," Tony nodded without budging from his order. "I mean it. Keep it downstairs and out of sight. We'll go over it chronologically. I'll grab coffee for us while you get the Afghanistan material set up downstairs. Start with the video of the attack and move forward from there. Don't wait for me. Just watch the video and take notes. Give me a report of what you see in the playback when I get there."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Evidence Garage_**

McGee stepped into the evidence garage in search of his teammate. Initially, he gone to at the squad room to find it empty the afternoon following his homework assignment from Cranston. The only person passing through the room was Jardine. Through her sterile face mask (in place due to a recent outbreak of the flu in the District), she informed McGee that she had seen Bishop in the evidence garage sorting through boxes half an hour earlier.

So that was his destination.

As he stepped off the elevator, he saw an odd yet somewhat familiar sight. Evidence was strewn across two tables for an apparent review—something the team did when stumped or reviewing a cold case: lay it all out in the open and see what got missed previously. However, they rarely did the drill in the evidence garage unless the items to be reviewed included a car or a full mock-up of a crime scene. Something else bothered him about the sight as well, but he could not put his finger on it until he spied Bishop standing in front of a large TV screen rolled into the room as part of here project. On the screen, he saw the most astounding sight: himself.

He was chatting with the camera, looking weary and bleary. None of what he said on the video seemed familiar to his memory; however, a bitter taste filled his mouth and his heart began to race as he also heard Tony's voice on the playback then discerned when the video was made. Their conversation, a completely inappropriate (and therefore predictable) ribbing from Tony via the multimillion dollar secure system, rambled briefly from Tony's accusation about McGee's motivation regarding a conversation with Abby in the lab to some obtuse lovelife advice (mixed with a 1990s TV reference), ended as the sounds of Vance's and Gibbs' voice sounded from the tape. What they had to say was not the least bit interesting to McGee as he found his eyes were drawn more to something barely visible over his shoulder on the playback. As the shots rang out, startling him to the point of making him shirk back in reaction, he felt a clammy feeling wash over him as his heart beat loudly in his ears.

For a moment, McGee thought that he might be having a stroke or that some part of the healed suturing in his chest had given way so that he was hemorrhaging internally once more. A dull but forceful pain ripped through him. He felt lightheaded and the air seemed excessively heavy and dry, making every respiration ache. The world around him seemed to slow down to a nearly comical rate; there was a high-pitched ringing in his ears and his throat went dry. He felt more than heard himself speak as he walked close to the screen and pointed toward the area in the upper left hand corner of the picture.

"What is that?" McGee asked as she arrived to stand behind Bishop.

She jumped in surprise, not having heard him join her. She spun around and gaped at him wide-eyed.

"McGee?" she gasped then futilely attempted to block the screen with her diminutive stature while frantically pressed buttons on the remote attempting to stop the video. All she succeeded in doing was to pause the tape on an unfortunate frame—the one of McGee bleeding out on the floor.

"I'm so sorry," she said in a harried and frazzled tone. "You're not supposed to see this."

As she fumbled with the remote, he calmly reached for it tried to take it from her. She held fast to the device.

"No, Tim," she insisted, tightening her grip.

"Play it again," McGee said.

Bishop shook her head then relinquished the remote as he tugged it firmly from her hands. She dove her hand into her pocket and tapped out a brief text message to Tony: "911." McGee paid her no attention as he rewound the video to play it again.

"McGee, don't watch this," she said but gave up her plea while he stared intently at the screen.

He rolled the video back to the start, the point just before Tony had begun harassing on the conference. It was strange seeing himself on the screen and not recalling the conversation from when the recording was made. Still, something was scratching at the back of his mind, and he could hear the voice of his father urging him to finish the case. As a bitter taste grew his mouth and his heart began to beat faster, he started playing the recording. In the few seconds before he had begun to speak to Tony, McGee watched the image of himself adjust the webcam atop the monitor. He hit pause on that frame.

In it, he could see over his shoulder toward the computer station he and Burley had tried using. That he remembered. It had malfunctioned and caused several technical problems. The temperamental machine was visible on the screen as were the two Marines in the room behind the image of McGee. He advanced the shot a few frames and watched himself turn and eye both men as they appeared to eavesdrop on Tony's opening lecture to him. McGee paused the video again, capturing their blurry faces in the upper corner of the screen.

"Marrovich and Davies," he said under his breath as he pointed to them as he distantly heard the elevator chime signaling someone was arriving in the evidence receiving bay.

"Yes," Bishop confirmed for him as she stepped up to his side. "Those are the two marines killed in the Comm Center. Do you remember them? Do you remember any of this?"

Before he could answer, Tony's voice shouted across the room

"Whoa!" he yelled as he shook his head in warning behind them. "Ellie, what the hell is going on? McGee, what are you doing? Turn that off!"

He moved swiftly toward the duo. Bishop had a pale and worried look on her face as she stared at McGee, who had his head cocked to the side while concentrating on the picture in front of him. Tony did not bother with locating the remote. Instead, he slapped the side of the large monitor, effectively shutting it off. He stood in front of the two other agents, blocking their view of the newly blackened screen. He glowered at Bishop then turned a more uncertain expression on McGee.

"That's none of your concern," Tony said in a mild voice. "You need to trust me here, McGee. Stay out of this. You don't remember any of this, and it's probably best that you keep it that way."

McGee looked at him oddly, as if he was speaking a foreign language. In truth, he saw Tony's lips move and heard something that sounded like the teacher in an old Peanuts cartoon. None of that mattered. What mattered was the explosion of images, fragmented memories, bursting in his head. He locked eyes with Tony briefly.

"Burley's computer," McGee said suddenly as he grabbed the front of Tony's shirt. "Where is Burley's computer—the one that was in the corner of the video?"

Before either could answer, McGee handed Bishop the remote then went to terminal that was used to log all evidence entering the lock up. The tech normally in-charge of it simply raised her hands and stepped back. She looked to Tony who shrugged but held up his hands letting her know that he was watching and waiting to see what happened next as McGee began typing furiously.

"It's got to be here," he muttered as he shook his head while reading the information scrolling on the screen. "Where the hell is it?"

"McGee, what are you doing?" Tony asked as he slowly approached his teammate.

"We missed something," he said distractedly. "I missed something… or forgot it."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't your fault," Tony said easily. "We got the guy who allowed that breech. That case is closed."

"No," McGee said agitatedly as he shook his head firmly. "It can't be just a computer breech. There was more."

"What do you mean?" Bishop asked. "Bradley Kimmel, the programmer in DC, and Thomas Greer, the Simocorp manager on the ground in Afghanistan, both confessed. They took money from Khadeem Abdali to falsify the background checks on his handpicked security forces. They tampered with the system to let them…"

"No," McGee said tensely as anger flared in his eyes. "That's not it—not all of it. That's something different."

Tony turned to Bishop and asked in a whispering voice for her to get Abby. Regardless of the scientist's current non-single status, Tony trusted her to be able to help soothe their agitated friend. However, Bishop dashed that plan as she shook her head and muttered that Abby was not working that day as she was at a forensics conference at the Greenbrier. During their quiet sidebar, McGee's distress increased.

"Where the hell is it?" he asked himself mostly as he clenched his jaw in frustration. "It has to be here."

"Where is what?" Tony asked trying to keep his voice light, much the way he would try and talk someone from jumping off a roof. "Tim, chill, okay? What are you looking for? Tell me what it is, and I'll help you find it."

"I'm looking for the hard drive from the station Stan was using in the Comm Center," McGee said testily as he scowled at the logging computer. "It's not on your evidence log. What happened to it?"

"Well, it's in pieces," Tony explained. "The computer you were using got shot to bits like a lot of things in that room did. It came back to us as a single exhibit, albeit a multi-particle exhibit, after getting smashed up. Do you have any idea how much damage a 9-millimeter slug can do?"

He trailed off as McGee lifted his unamused eyes to meet Tony's. The flat line of the tech savvy agent's mouth was all the answer and comment Tony needed to backpedal.

"Right," Tony winced. "My bad."

"It's gotta be here," McGee said returning his focus to the computer.

"McGee, Abby put that computer back together months ago," Tony edged closer. "She said it was clean—not in a Zelda Rubenstein way but in a factory settings new sort of way. She said there was nothing to find on it other than what was supposed to be there."

McGee turned a suffering look that was both frustrated and pitying on Tony. A moment later, his shoulders relaxed as he nodded at the screen.

"The computer she looked at, sure," McGee said as a weak but relieved grin tugged on the corners of his moth as he stood up quickly and headed toward the shelving area. "She didn't find anything because she looked at the wrong one."

Puzzled but this pronouncement, Tony followed him into the caged area and watched as McGee walked up and down the aisle looking for something. After a few passes, he dragged the rolling ladder to one shelf and climbed two rungs then lifted off an evidence bag containing a flat, metallic box. McGee nodded confidently at Tony as he passed by him back to the main room.

Tony stepped outside and whispered to Bishop

"Watch him," Tony nodded. "I'm going to get back up."

Bishop wrinkled her nose in surprise.

"You think we're going to arrest someone?" she asked quietly. "Is this about what Parsons said?"

"Not that kind of back up," Tony shook his head.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Autopsy Suite_**

Ducky took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. End of fiscal year reporting was always arduous, but ordering supplies for the coming fiscal year was infinitely worse in his opinion. He looked at the clock then at the cozy covering his recently boiled kettle. Tea, he knew, would be what saved him this day. He heard the doors whoosh open behind him and began giving orders to his returning assistant.

"Mr. Palmer, please verify that the tally on this glove order is correct," Ducky insisted. "I find it hard to believe we went through 2.2 million units of gloves. I think it is more likely that we used…"

"Uh, not Palme and not here about gloves," Tony said with an urgency in his voice that prompted the medical examiner to turn in his chair. "Ducky, I need your expertise in the evidence garage. Like right now."

"There's a body in the garage?" he asked with doubt pulling on his features. "I wasn't notified. What happened?

"Not that kind of expertise," Tony said. "I need your head doctor skills. I'm not looking for a profile. I need help keeping McGee from losing what's left of his mind. I think he's about to blow a gasket. I'm hoping you can stop that from happening."

"What's wrong?" Ducky asked as he got out of his chair.

"Ever watched a computer meltdown?" Tony offered. "I haven't, but I think it must look something like this."

"Oh dear," the doctor sighed. "What happened?"

"I'm not sure," Tony explained. "Bishop was watching the tape from Afghanistan. She was supposed to be alone but when I arrived, McGee was there watching the footage of the shooting. Now, he's rambling about a hard drive. Gibbs was afraid he was simmering and going to blow. I'm worried the Boss is right and it's finally happening."

Ducky huffed his disagreement as he reached the door.

"Jethro is wise about many things; however, I will reserve my judgment this time," he said. "The only things simmering with Timothy that I have seen are his patience and his temper."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Evidence Garage_**

Bishop marveled at how quickly McGee had pulled apart a working computer and installed the silver box from evidence, now identified as a hard drive. From the markings on the evidence bag, it was from the base in Afghanistan but did not come to the Navy Yard via Burley's evidence shipment. It had been sent two days earlier via the mail shipped from an aircraft carrier, USS Truman, and had been sitting on a shelf waiting to be processed ever since.

"While you were at Foxtrot Camp, you swapped out the core and the memory of Burley's normal computer then sent it from the ship back here," she gaped and smiled as she understood his earlier comments finally. "That's what you did on the carrier. You didn't access a mainframe at all; you mailed part of a computer back here. So, you suspected a virus and didn't want anyone to know you changed the hardware?"

"It's a worm actually," McGee explained feeling a giddy sort of excitement rather than the anxious pressure he experienced earlier. "I mean, I have no idea what I suspected at the time as I don't exactly remember it. I just know now that I was suspicious of how Stan's machine was behaving."

"You remember that?" she wondered. "That's good."

"Actually, I'm guessing based on my sketchy notes here in the bag," he said. "When I saw the computer and the Marines on the video, I got a flash of pulling the drive out of the corner system and tagging it as evidence. Then, when I found in the receiving evidence log that a package arrived here around the date I was overseas it made sense. This package has been sitting on the receiving shelves waiting for a case assignment all this time. Look at the evidence tag; it shows I pulled the drive from the corner station in the Comm Center. I must have been suspicious of someone who worked in that room regularly, or I wouldn't have pulled it much less done it without telling anyone."

"Not even Stan?" she wondered and feeling terrible as she cast doubt on their temporary teammate.

"No, I wouldn't have told Stan, but not for any suspicious reason," McGee said letting her release her worries. "Stan understands computers only slightly better than Gibbs. He'd rather not know the inner workings of them. If I told him I needed to use the systems on the carrier, then I obviously trusted him; I just didn't bore him with the intricate details."

"Why did you need the server on the carrier?" Bishop questioned.

McGee shrugged. He might have wanted to run some tests on the hard drive; he might have wanted to download the contents as a precaution in case the package got lost in the mail. There were a multitude of logical possibilities—none of which he could say with any confidence was the truth. However, a feeling in his gut told him that the question of using the server was no longer relevant now that the drive was hooked up and ready to be viewed.

"If Stan was in on this, he would never have asked for someone with computer skills to join him at the base to help," McGee assured her. "Besides, if it was him, he'd have come down here long ago and destroyed all this. It's all still here—I'm the first one to break the evidence seal so Stan wasn't involved. No, whoever was involved had to be someone with access and knowledge. Stan had access, but he's got no computer knowledge. Actually, even his access was too limited to do any of this."

Bishop nodded and smiled, feeling a pang of familiarity upon hearing McGee offer his knowledge to the case. While they had developed a flow between she and Tony working on this case, McGee's absence had been acutely felt by all—something she (and she suspected the others) had not anticipated. It amazed her that people who dealt with the misfortunes and tragedies of others so often could lose sight of how important any one of them was. They worked as a team and as a team there was the belief that the whole was more important than the parts, that no one piece was truly irreplaceable. Bishop now knew, and hoped the others did as well, how wrong that was. She was also glad McGee seemed to be over his feelings of betrayal about being lied to and kept out of the investigation thus far. Although, she realized that this latest information was not pertinent to their current inquiry and seemed to dash any theories Tony and Parsons had involving linking of the cold case and the shooting… or so it seemed.

"I'm sorry we didn't let you in on what we were doing," Bishop apologized solemnly. "I'm still not supposed to, but I shouldn't have lied to you about it. I feel terrible about that."

"What?" McGee asked, looking up as if just realizing she was still seated beside him. "Oh, that. Yeah." He paused and considered her words and her sad expression; he sighed then shook his head as he found his interest in the keyboard at his fingertips was greater than any lingering feelings of anger or betrayal. "Don't do that again."

Cranston had advised him to ease into the discussion and talk about the weather. Well, in his opinion, the weather was average for this time of year and not worthy of mention (much like traffic of any other small talk conversation). Although he was technically disobeying the homework directive, McGee figured he was justified (and where homework was concerned, he had always been advanced and done more than required anyway).

So, he turned to face on the computer once more. He was more interested in feeling like he was a part of an investigation again so forgiving Bishop was easy. She knew she had done something wrong, at least as far as their trust was concerned. She was sorry, too, that was evident. In the rush of working on this discovered evidence, McGee found he did not care about the previous transgression of his trust.

Bishop watched him typing and analyzing the screen with a feeling of relief. McGee's expression scrunching into a familiar (and much missed) look of extreme focus. Bishop smiled as she placed her hand supportively on his shoulder as Gibbs' assessment of McGee's ability and proclivity toward forgiveness came to mind. His ability to do so with so little evident effort was just as the Boss stated: a superpower.

"What are you doing now?" she asked, leaning over his shoulder to look at the rapidly changing numbers on the screen.

"I'm running secure-ware on it," McGee replied. "I can see there is a worm imbedded in the operating system. It's not blatantly malicious from the looks of it. It's more insidious than anything else. From the code the scan has pulled out, it looks like this one monitors all activity and has a feedback protocol where it sends a log of all keystrokes and all video that gets streamed to an online domain."

"So someone was spying on everything this hard drive processed?" she nodded. "That means Stan was essentially bugged from the moment he got to the base. That's why he could never get ahead of whoever did… whatever they did. Is this part of the security breech? You said it was something else."

McGee chewed is lip for a moment as he looked through the illegally obtained keystroke logs and the times they were viewed. He shook his head as an image of his father, looking at him from his coffin, rose in his mind urging him to finish what he started. McGee knew now that this was the unfinished case that had been plaguing him. It had nothing to do with his father; it was his own memory that was hounding him from dark, forgotten spot.

"It's definitely something else," McGee said as he took a steadying breath and silently commanded his hands to stop trembling over the keys. "The question is: How does it report what it's spying? There's nothing on here that would strip the firewall. Any breech attempted with the firewall still in place would show up on security log. Whoever planted this would have needed a secluded peripheral device that didn't get a secure-ware sweep but still had access to the server. This kind worm is designed to capture the information then transmit it somewhere else, but it's not a transmission program."

"Meaning it needs help?" Bishop asked as the words peripheral device rang loudly in Bishop's ears.

"Yeah, glad I'm not alone in that," McGee muttered and smirked at his own half-joke.

Bishop heard the self-deprecating remark but chose not to question it. She then patted him on the shoulder before she walked to the evidence locker. She went to a shelf not far from the front where she located an innocuous looking laptop. She then delivered it to the table where McGee was puzzling over the screen in front of him.

"Would a laptop with a partitioned hard drive that creates a vault be one of those devices?" she asked as she presented the enigmatic laptop that neither Abby nor the entire cyber division had been able to crack the previous May. "No one's been able to break into Fort Knox here."

McGee blinked rapidly as flashes, like tiny popping bulbs, dazzled in his mind. None of the images stayed long enough for him to recognize them or identify them, but the sudden ringing in his ears and the trembles in his hands let him know this was something important—something he should (and maybe at one time did) know. He nodded quickly then worked on linking the laptop to the tainted hard drive. He typed some more and after a few moments, he encountered a barrier in the form of a password prompt to enter the web domain.

"You're in?" she gasped. "Did you actually just open this vault thing?"

"No, but I've found the door," he corrected her. "It's locked. I just need the key."

He paused then looked around the room to find no one else all that interested in the discovery. His eyes then landed on Bishop expectantly; she blinked her confusion then shrugged, unsure what he was expecting from her.

"Sorry," Mc Gee shook his head. "This is the point when Tony usually says something about the Gate Keeper and the Key Master. It's a movie thing. Never mind."

"Okay," Bishop said mystified. "So what now? Password cracker?"

She spied an obtuse smile slowly form on McGee's lips that she suspected had nothing to do with references to '80's movie dialogue or her suggested solution.

"No need," McGee said as he continued to type. "It'll be with his personal effects. I'm sure of it. Something small and innocuous that he would keep close by at all times for safe keeping."

"What will be with whose effects?" she asked.

McGee did not answer as he became transfixed by the information scrolling on the screen. He sifted through every item listed on the evidence log from Burley's Afghanistan report. He then began scanned through the JPEGs of each item, searching for what he needed. He muttered a small "yes" of triumph when he saw what he was looking for then blew up the image on the screen. Bishop stared at a picture showing the front and back of the watch. The front had a speckles of dried blood; the back simply had an inscription of initials and a series of digits she took to be the serial number.

"What am I looking at?" she asked. "That looks like the back of a watch."

"That's because it is," McGee said typing characters from the screen into the password field. "It's also a discrete hiding place."

It took several tries, but eventually, the security barrier dropped. Bishop blinked then gasped in surprise.

"How did you break that?" she asked. "No one in the cyber unit could get into it. Abby couldn't get into it. There was a rumor even Director Vance tried and failed."

McGee grinned, feeling proud of himself as he managed to do something that some of the smartest people he knew had not been able to do. The only thing missing from this moment, he decided, was a rousing high-five from Abby (after she finished gaping and gasping that she had missed the clues right under her nose). He also missed the likely friendly (if retaliatory) pinch he would get from her followed by one of her exuberant, strangling hugs. Then again, he reminded himself, he could get those and a lot more later when she returned from her conference and she found out what she missed by being away for the day. She wouldn't be happy she missed this evidence, but she would be immensely proud of him for finding it.

"You know how the guys in IT always tell you not to write down your passwords?" McGee replied. "It's because you can never actually hide them. Someone can always find them. Sergeant Marrovich never learned that lesson."

"Marrovich?" Bishop repeated. "He was in on this? He used his father's watch?"

McGee shook his head as he explained.

"The serial number on his watch is not a serial number and the initials on it are not initials," McGee said. "I got it through trial and error, but the initials are the first part of the password and the next four digits are the second part. The most secure passwords are alphanumeric with special characters. This serial number has a dash in it, so I guessed that was the other piece."

After entering the sequence, the screen opened up to show folders containing keystroke logs, video copies and a ledger of sorts with measurements and money amounts. McGee tabbed into another part of the online database to reveal more information.

"What are you doing?" Bishop inquired. "Oh my god. Is that a bank account and routing number?"

"It appears to be," McGee said. "This is what Marrovich was doing with his part."

"His part of what?" she asked as she edged closer to the monitor and read it. "Heroin? They were smuggling heroin out of the base."

"And using Navy ships to transport it," he said distantly as a clammy chill washed over him.

Bishop's chin dropped as Parsons' briefing earlier in the day came to mind. Her surprise and fascination were so encompassing that she did not notice McGee unconsciously reached toward the entry scar from the bullet that nearly ended his life.

He felt the starburst rift in his skin then briefly rubbed the vertical scar over his sternum. He took little consolation from knowing the man who fired it was dead. He also did not feel better knowing the man who orchestrated the reason the bullet was fired was also dead. Both Sgt. Marrovich and the Afghan shooter had been wiped from McGee's conscious memory until this moment, but now what they had done was drowning him with waves of sick and detestable feelings. As he put the whole story together in his head, he felt suddenly drained and exposed. He stood up and moved away from the computer as Bishop slid into his place and began rapidly typing.

"McGee, this account is still active," she marveled. "Looks like the payments shifted from an overseas account to something domestic just a week or so after Marrovich died. Who would have… Damn! Tony's going to have a field day with this. It's the wife! Marrovich's wife has been tapping into the account. Of course! She asked us to give her husband's watch back. She said it was for her son, and we gave it to her. Wow. We were told they were on the outs before he died but that it was because they were separated by a few thousand miles. Maybe it was about money. We need to talk to her again. It's complete conjecture at this point, but what if she put a hit out on her husband and that's why…. McGee? Tim?"

She spun around in the chair but could not see him in the room. She did notice Tony stepping out of the side door leading to the autopsy bay with Ducky in tow.

"Where is he?" Tony asked urgently. "Ellie, where did McGee go?"

"I don't know," she shook her head. "He was just here a second ago. Tony, you're not going to believe what he found. Okay, I'm getting a warrant and seizing this bank account right now. It's unbelievable. We had this in evidence the whole time. Hey Ducky. Why are you here?"

"I figured McGee could use someone with his skills," Tony said. "The psychology ones, not the autopsy ones."

"Oh," she nodded. "What he needs us for us to buy him dinner. Tony, he didn't even know what he was looking for and he found this."

"What is this exactly?" Tony asked peering at the screen. "What are you looking at?"

"I think it's the reason McGee got shot," Bishop said. "I don't know if they were trying to kill him, Marrovich, a computer, or all of the above. I'm thinking it's the last two for certain. The shooters didn't go into the barracks to kill Tim or Stan. They were looking for the insides of a computer, which were no longer on the base. It wasn't about a cold case at all. It was about a drug running in the present day."

Tony held his tongue. Parsons had other ideas and while they seemed farfetched, Tony was willing to hear them out for now. If the shooting in Afghanistan had a drug connection, there was still a chance it was somehow connected to a retired DEA agent and a drug ring that operated in the past. What that meant for the suspected Porter connection was still unknown to him, but what concerned Tony more in that moment was the location of his missing partner.

"He put all that together from looking at a few seconds of video before the shooting happened?" Tony scrunched his brow then scanned the room to be certain McGee wasn't simply pawing through the evidence shelves for more.

"Must have unearthed something in his memory," she replied.

"Is he okay?" Tony asked as he looked around again to verify his colleague was not around.

"I think so," she said. "It was kind of exciting—he was back to being the old McGee again; you know how he gets when he's in his computer euphoria."

She then turned her head away as her call to the legal department had finally summoned someone. Ducky, however, was less interested in legal paperwork and more interested in a wayward agent and his state of mind.

"Eleanor, after making this discovery, did Timothy say anything?" Ducky asked.

Bishop shook her head as she commenced making her request to one of the lawyers upstairs. She covered the phone as her face twisted in confusion over something he said.

"He just got quiet and then walked away, I guess," she shrugged. "I didn't know he left the room. I was still talking to him as if he was here."

Tony sighed in frustration and turned to Ducky for any suggestion that might help them locate the missing agent.

"Anthony, as a precaution, call the guards at the front gate to notify you if he attempts to leave," Ducky said. "While you do that, I will go look for him in the building. I have an inkling where I might find him."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	32. Chapter 32

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Abby's Lab_**

Ducky walked at a clipped pace, intent on finding the stray agent. His concern was rather high considering what he knew of McGee's afternoon discovery and what he knew about his overall recovery. While the medical examiner had done his best to waylay Tony's fears, that was merely to correct a misperception that McGee might crumble under the stress of watching the attack that nearly took his life. No, crumbling in the face of a known fact was not likely to happen

Ducky had a different concern altogether. McGee had just remembered something and the pain and confusion of that recollection had the possibility of doing colossal damage if not put swiftly into the proper perspective. It could be like poison entering the blood stream. The necessity was to administer an antidote before the harm it caused was irreparable. In normal circumstances, Ducky would have felt confident that other members of the team would step in to administer that sort of aid; however, things were still not normal within the team. He felt relatively sure that had Gibbs been present, he could have taken care of things and not allowed McGee to leave unobserved. Since McGee had begun seeing a trauma specialist (something that in Ducky's opinion should have been required from the moment he left the hospital in June), Gibbs' formerly frosty and aloof behavior toward his agent had melted.

However, the same could not be said for Tony's interactions with his partner—something Ducky found troubling. The medical examiner was displeased that Gibbs' orchestrated abandonment of McGee over the summer, what bothered him more was Tony's continued implementation of it. Ducky understood that Gibbs' initial order to steer clear of McGee during his recovery came from a place of caring; however, handle with care were not instructions many gunnery sergeants understood when dealing with adults and unfortunately Tony had taken a few too many cues from his mentor.

With a jumble of concerns churning in his stomach, Ducky made his way to the one place he felt certain McGee would go for solace and comfort after the upheaval of memories in the evidence garage. He was pleased to find his wayward quarry precisely where he expected to locate him: seated at Abby's desk. Whether McGee was waiting for her (having forgotten that she was not in the office that day) or merely there to find quiet and peace while absorbing what he had just learned, the doctor could not immediately determine. Ducky hesitated before addressing him, wondering if time alone was what McGee needed most, but the distant look in his eyes as he stared blankly forward let Ducky know that an intrusion would not be detrimental and might even be needed.

"Ah, there you are, Timothy," Ducky said as he approached the desk. "Eleanor told me there was an unexpected breakthrough that unfolded in front of her courtesy of you and your computer skills. You left before receiving any congratulations in solving a new aspect to an investigation that many believed was closed. Modesty can be a virtue, but occasionally it is not wrong to save that reaction for a later time. Eleanor is raving about your miraculous analytical skills to the legal department as she seeks her warrant."

McGee turned slowly to look at the man and appraised the sincerity in his voice and face. Ducky was not a disingenuous person normally. His enthusiasm and curiosity seemed genuine.

"Nothing miraculous about it," McGee replied with a weak shrug. "Someone would have figured it out eventually. When the evidence clerks audit the storage shelves at the end of the fiscal year, they would have found the hard drive and run the same checks I did. I just did my job, Ducky. We don't get congratulations for doing what we're supposed to do."

Ducky smiled and nodded understandingly as he continued his careful probing of the agent's state of mind. He seemed mostly stunned but also a bit disappointed. It was the latter reaction that concerned the doctor.

"Spoken like one of Jethro's disciples," Ducky noted. "However, I submit that one can be proud of an accomplishment without being arrogant. I believe you are thoughtful enough person to understand the difference. Why are you not impressed by your detective skills today? I thought solving a case was a thrill in itself for you."

"I didn't solve the case," McGee shook his head. "I took a short cut when I was investigating in May and delayed anyone finding this. I made a mistake and had to correct it. Of course, if I'd been a better witness in the first place, I wouldn't have forgotten what they needed to know to figure everything out."

Ducky regarded him with a solemn and understanding expression.

"I believe you have more than proven your worth to this investigation," he assured the despondent agent. "Eleanor is marveling at the speed in which you filled in so many pieces of this puzzle. She is eagerly planning to seize the ill-gotten funds as we speak. As for your memory loss, it may have delayed this discovery, but it was hardly your fault. Retrograde amnesia was virtually unavoidable considering what happened to you. I hope you realize that the fact that you temporarily forgot a few details is not of the least interest or importance to your family and friends. We are much more enamored with the fact that you recovered from the tragic event that started all of this."

McGee scoffed at the offering and its description as he stared vacantly toward the empty lab.

"This _tragic event_ was just random act of violence," McGee said flatly. "I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was not different than a mugging gone bad."

Ducky nodded as the root of McGee's mood became apparent. The doctor sighed solemnly as he realized what was bothering the younger man.

"In the basest sense, perhaps," Ducky nodded. "Does that bother you?"

"Yeah," he nodded slowly as he felt a stinging sensation at the back of his eyes while his throat tightened. "It does."

McGee thought he should probably be having this discussion with Cranston, but if there was anyone around who understood the full impact of crime and what might happen to a victim, it was Ducky. His working life revolved around the most extreme consequences of it and his psychological studies gave him unique insight.

"Why?" the medical examiner inquired calmly as he perched on the edge of the desk.

There was a tender interest in his voice, one that reminded McGee of his grandmother Penny, which made answering both easy and automatic despite the pain of saying the words.

"It makes what happened to me worse somehow," he shook his head as his voice quaked. "Before today, I was a casualty in a warzone and what happened to me was an act of terrorism. There was, I don't know, honor in that... something I could respect. Now that I know it was nothing more than part of a drug deal, it makes me just a bystander victim. I'm no different than someone walking down the wrong alley in Southeast at the wrong time of night. I know it's stupid to think it matters. Shot is shot, right? But it seems different; it feels different. I don't understand why, but it just does."

Ducky sighed compassionately as he gripped McGee's shoulder firmly. He paused for a moment as the agent hung his head then roughly brushed the hint of tears from his downcast eyes. The pain of the discovery and the acceptance of what the event had done to his world radiated from him in a way that made Ducky ache with sympathy.

"Whatever dominos were knocked over to place you in the line of fire that morning, you were caught at the epicenter of catastrophic and nefarious events," Ducky reasoned with compassion flooding his expression and his voice. "Your life, a worthwhile, exemplary and noble life I might add, was nearly extinguished by a heinous and terrifying act. Regardless of the motivation, it was sufficiently terrible and vicious to fell even well-trained Marines. After the attack, you valiantly fought a difficult battle to survive the aftermath of it all. Pardon my observation, but it seems to me that you think the motive behind the crime committed upon you makes you more vulnerable simply because it was not something of more global importance or politically motivated. You are the investigator, Timothy, but I would submit to you that motive matters very little when assessing the gravity of a criminal act of this nature."

"Then what does matter?" McGee asked listlessly as he turned lost and forlorn eyes to the doctor.

"The result," Ducky replied firmly. "What happened to you is more important than why—at least to those who care about you. Here is the story: A man fired a bullet—two in fact—into your body. The goal of his act, regardless of motive, was to kill you. You defied him, and now you just helped solve the case. That, my dear boy, is the beginning, the end, and the lesson of this tale."

McGee looked at the medical examiner with an uncertain expression then nodded, quietly thanking the man for his thoughts. While he was not ready to immediately shift how this latest information about the attack made him feel, he was willing to remain open to Ducky's take on it for now. As McGee sat quietly contemplating Ducky's offering, he was struck by how deeply he wished Abby was present. She had helped him make sense of chaos quite a bit recently; however, he was glad at least that if she could not be there that Ducky was the one who was with him. McGee knew the man understood the value of silence as he waited patiently by his side patiently.

Eventually, the knot in McGee's chest loosened a bit as the previous jitters seeped from his bones. McGee then sighed and turned his eyes to the doctor.

"Thanks, Ducky," he said. "I appreciate that and for coming to talk to me. I'm sure no one else here today wanted the job, but better you than Tony. I couldn't take a riff of nicknames and jokes right now to remind me that I was just in the way or a red shirt in all this."

Ducky's posture stiffened as the sad rift between the two agents was waved in front of him. While he did not dismiss Tony's responsibility in creating some of the distance between the two men, he did feel the need to offer a third party observation.

"Anthony is actually quite worried about you—he has been since the moment he learned you were injured," Ducky informed McGee. "It was he who came to find me as you began your discovery in the garage. He feared you were having some sort of break down. Do not take that as an accusation that he believes you are mentally infirm. The truth is quite the contrary. He thinks you have been too strong for too long. He is afraid you will break under the enormous strain of pretending you are alright when we have seen for ourselves that you are not—not yet anyway. Time is both a wonderful gift and a miraculous cure for many things, Timothy. Taking healthy doses of it will do wonders for you."

McGee considered the assessment and did not know what to think. Tony had treated him like he was inconvenient, like he was an outsider, and like he simply was invisible since his return. McGee could not fathom why and did not let himself ponder it long because his partner had not bothered to contact him during the many weeks McGee was in Texas recovering. The truth of the matter seemed that Tony simply did not care; however, Ducky was stating a contrary opinion. He was also sharing his thoughts that Gibbs and Vance were not alone in their stance that McGee had not been ready to return to duty when he did. Beyond a few sharp words to Vance and Susan Grady, it seemed others had also sensed McGee's inner turmoil.

"That's what Dr. Cranston keeps telling me," McGee revealed quietly as he looked down at his hands. "I've been talking to her to… you know… fix things."

"That is a very difficult and brave thing to do," Ducky advised him confidently. "I can assure you through both my decades of experience and my considerable education that seeking help when one feels unwell does not make you weak or crazy. A refusal to obtain help does that. I suspect through your sessions that you will find out that you're not nearly as damaged as you fear, but you are also not nearly as well as you pretended. You will not regret taking that step. In that vein, I suggest putting in a call to Dr. Cranston after today's events. It may provide her with insight she finds helpful for your sessions."

McGee nodded.

"I'm ahead of you there, Ducky," he admitted. "I called her once I got in here and remembered that Abby is away today. Dr. Cranston's clearing her late afternoon schedule and is going to call me for a phone session at 4:30. I'm guessing that since she isn't exactly rushing to talk to me that she doesn't think I'm going to fall apart. So, you can tell Tony he doesn't need to find me a straightjacket. I'm okay, or as okay as I can be right now. Really. You didn't need to check up on me."

Ducky smiled easily, finding every reason with his observations to believe Cranston's confidence was well-placed.

"Perhaps I need not check _up_ on you, but I did need to check _in_ with you," he said. "I have a message for you from Abigail from a bit earlier. She tried reaching you but could not for some reason. She left you a message apparently and was concerned when she did not receive a response from you."

McGee looked down at his cellphone to see the thumbnail for his phone mail was highlighted. He scrolled into his call log to see he had a missed call and accompanying message from Abby. He played with the settings to see the ringer was off still off from when he needed quiet earlier in the day to work in the laptop. That kind of absentmindedness was yet another of the symptoms that Cranston said would subside with time as he worked through the stress he was still experiencing from his injuries and protracted recovery. Scolding himself silently, he tapped out a brief apology text letting Abby know the ringer was just off when she called and that he was fine. As he did so, Ducky provided a verbal message.

"She wanted me to let you know that she is going to be tied up for several hours longer than anticipated at her conference," Ducky continued. "She also wanted me to say that is not a literal description of her afternoon and evening."

McGee smirked. The forensics panel discussion Abby was attending that afternoon was about cases of bondage gone bad and the different types of knots and ligatures gaining popularity among the more violent fetish sects operating out of S&M clubs.

"The presenter has apparently agreed to provide more demonstrations of the different methods they have found in the last few years that perpetrators use to hide their attempts at ligature strangulation," Ducky explained in a clinical tone. "Abby said she will not make it back until after 9 this evening. I am unclear whether that means she is meeting up with you at that hour or if she is merely telling you that is when she will be back. I presume her message to you has those details."

McGee looked at Ducky quizzically. The man did not seem surprised to be delivering such a message. The S&M context aside (such things were often common discussion with investigators and medical examiners), Abby's request to let McGee know her personal schedule should have seemed odd to Ducky. His lack of curiosity or noting the oddity of it made McGee wondered if Abby had mentioned their lives to him. McGee doubted it. If she was telling anyone, she would be telling everyone. Not that she didn't want to—McGee knew that the hush-hush approach they used through the summer bothered her. Abby lived out loud as much as possible. She wore her heart on her sleeve and her mind on the tip of her tongue.

"Thanks for delivering the message," McGee said. "You apparently aren't surprised by it."

"Surprised?" Ducky repeated as he shook his head. "I am merely happy that I could assist in conveying any useful information."

"That's not what I meant," McGee said. "You know, don't you?"

"Know what?" Ducky inquired then grinned then half shrugged.

"That Abby and I are…," McGee began. "That we're not just friends."

"My dear boy, I've known that for many years," he said sagely. "I am happy that both of you seem to have come to that realization at the same time finally. Your personal lives outside of this building are your own and should be kept as private as you both deem necessary. I just happen to have keen skills for observation and insightful reading of interpersonal signals. Also, I didn't hurt that I saw her greet you recently in a way that was rather more amorous than my female friends are when greeting me, I am sad to report."

McGee sighed and hung his head as he blushed slightly in embarrassment. He figured they must have been seen that morning in the parking lot. He knew it was foolish to kiss her goodbye as she left for her conference, but he did not think before doing so. Thinking it over now, he did not regret it or being seen either. Gibbs already knew. They hadn't lied to anyone so much as they did not advertise. Considering they were discussing living together, keeping their relationship secret seemed rather pointless now.

"It's not like it was in the past," McGee said. "Things are serious this time. We're talking about… future plans."

"Well, then that does make the regret I heard in her voice make more sense," Ducky explained. "It was a level which I might qualify as longing when she reported she would not return as early as she initially planned. I feel confident in assuming that whatever the nature of your future discussions, she most certainly wants to continue that conversation."

McGee smirked and felt some of his energy begin to return as the drained feeling he experienced in the evidence garage began to lift. He looked at his watch and realized, sadly, that he now had nothing to do that evening as he suspected he would not be allowed to help with the account seizures Bishop was conducting. He would need to give a statement as he was both the initial investigator and later the victim involved in the convergence of events in Afghanistan. However, at that moment, he did not feel like thinking about it at all. Away from the building simply seemed like a nice place to be. Ducky seemed to read that in his expression and his posture.

"Well, as you are now free from your plans with Abigail, perhaps you will join me after your talk with Dr. Cranston—that is, if you feel up to it," he said. "Mr. Palmer was to accompany me to a delightful and, if I may say so from my experience, authentic Irish pub around the corner from my home. However, little Victoria has an ear infection so he is going home to give Breena chance to get some rest while he attends to the little darling. Tonight the special is Irish stew at O'Dwyer's. They do an exceptional job with it. I assure you that it is a treat not to be missed."

"You don't have to babysit me, Ducky," McGee said. "I'll be fine on my own. I was just going home and read a book while I wait to hear from Abby."

"Me, babysitting? Nonsense," Ducky assured him with a grin. "Timothy, I have a Bachelor's, a Master's degree and a medical degree—none of them are focused on childcare. Besides, if any of them were, you couldn't afford me. My babysitting skills are reserved only for our precious little Victoria Palmer. No, I have a better reason for our outing. My birthday passed while you were in Texas so you were not present to wish me good tidings. Yours, I recall, is in a matter of days so let us make a pact. You shall buy me dinner belatedly for mine and I shall do the same in advance of yours."

McGee sighed. It was a blatant ploy to make sure he was okay for the evening, and it was working. He decided that if he had to be under observation for another hour or two, it might as well be someone he liked and trusted.

"You're an Irishman, Timothy," Ducky cajoled him. "It's in your blood not to turn down this opportunity."

"It was also in my blood to be a naval officer, but that never took either," he smirked then looked at the frank expression on the doctor's face. "Okay. Just promise me that you won't mention to anyone that your real motivation was taking pity on me because Abby would rather spend the evening talking about murder and sadomasochism than spend time with me."

Ducky winked at him in a conspiratorial way as he grinned.

"The human heart can adore many and varied things, Timothy," he said sagely. "I'll meet you in the squad room around six. Then the Scotsman and the Irishman will take to the town."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _O'Dwyer's Pub_**

The meal was nearly over and McGee had almost forgotten why Ducky had requested his presence at the pub. Countless stories about misspent youthful dalliances, medical school hijinks, and old NIS cases saved from the brink by little more than luck filled the conversation. Ducky was a world-class storyteller and could easily hold both sides of the conversation, and McGee let him until cajoled into disclosing an anecdote or two about his own younger days.

The time flew by so swiftly that McGee was surprised to look at his watch to find it was nearing 9 p.m. He was prepared to bid Ducky farewell as Abby was due to be returning and he was looking forward to her call so that he could tell her the unexpected events of the day; however, his departure was halted when a looming presence appeared at the end of the booth.

"Well, well, well, look we who have here," Tony said as he leaned forward, his face slightly reddened like the whites of his eyes signaling he had been hidden away at the bar for a bit before joining them. "So does a guy need an invite to join this party?"

"Anthony," Ducky said sliding from his seat and brushing close to the agent and strategically bumping into him as he edged out of the booth. "Please, take my seat for now. I just saw the owner. He's a friend, and I want to check on his mother—the poor woman recently was moved to the assisted living facility where my mother spent her last days. You and Timothy can keep each other company in my absence—no making any outrageous plans without first consulting me."

He tossed a wink at them as he departed toward the bar. Tony then slid into Ducky's place, clutching a glass of Scotch in his fist then promptly signaled to the bar to have another brought over. McGee sat opposite him and said nothing. The two men took turns staring at the table, the walls and finally at each other (but never in the same moment). As the waitress deposited Tony's next drink on the table and retrieved his recently emptied glass, McGee sighed as he took an appraising look at his companion.

"Rough day?" McGee remarked flatly as he watched Tony lifted his new glass.

"I've had worse," Tony said. "I've been thinking about it, and today was actually a good day even though I found out I completely missed a pretty well established drug ring during a previous investigation. When I look at it now, it's like missing Richard Simmons leading a conga line through… well, pretty much anything."

"That why you're hitting the Scotch like you're hanging out with your frat brothers?" McGee wondered. "Because you missed a drug smuggling operation that no one else even suspected?"

"No, the boys from Alpha Chi Delta were more into Tequila shooters than Scotch," Tony corrected him. "Besides, I'm drinking with my other brothers, my brothers in arms tonight. So, here's to success and failure. I am oddly happy about both for very different reasons."

He lifted his glass then drained it.

"You've had enough already," McGee noted. "You're not going to be able to drive."

"Stop worrying, McKilljoy," Tony scoffed. "There are like ten thousand cabs in the city."

"Actually, the DC cab commission has only around 6,300 cabs on their register," McGee corrected him then waited for the expected geek taunt.

Instead, he got a hint of a smile.

Only McGee would have that useless yet precise bit of trivia at the ready, Tony thought as he shook his cloudy head. It was pointless factoid stuff like that he missed most while his partner was recovering: obtuse, often useless bits of trivia, offered up in a vain and futile effort to prove his partner that he knew something of value (even when the offering pretty much proved the opposite). For Tony, it was like having his own walking, talking, pale version of Google. Sure, Bishop was smart and full of oodles of facts, but they just never rolled into a discussion the way they did from McGee. The thought of the time lost and how close they had come to losing McGee altogether surged to the front of Tony's hazy thoughts and swiftly turned his expression sad. He looked down at the table and cleared his throat before looking up again with sorrowful eyes.

"I'm sorry," Tony said. "About today. I shouldn't have let that happen."

"What?" McGee questioned then shook his head. "No one knew the hard drive in the evidence lockup pertained to the Simocorp computer. I should have let someone know I was shipping it and why I was back in May. Not doing that was my error. Now, you and Ellie can do the legwork of bringing in Marrovich's wife and finding out what she knew."

Tony huffed. How like McGee to miss the point of a personal apology and try to share the blame or find a logical reason why the day unfolded as it did. While McGee was correct that he did err in shipping evidence to the lock up without proper advanced notice, it was hardly something to merit anything more than a quick growl as a reprimand.

"I didn't mean that—although, you're right, that was a probie mistake that might result in a new rule being made about forwarding relevant information," Tony explained. "No, I meant I'm sorry you walked in on Ellie looking at that video. You shouldn't have seen that. I never wanted you to see that."

McGee sighed as he bit back his anger as the feeling he was being treated like an invalid or fragile again welled up in his chest.

"I needed to see it, Tony," he said forcefully. "It helped me figure something out, something that was bothering me. Way back when I was still in the hospital, I started having this dream of my father telling me I left some case unfinished. It's been like a weight around my neck, dragging on me every day. I think this thing with the hard drive was the reason for it. Some part of my mind remembered it, but my conscious memory couldn't access it. I needed something to jog it loose. Seeing that video with the computer in the background and Marrovich in the frame did that for me. It was hard to see it, but it helped me."

Tony sat back and considered McGee's explanation as best he could with his hazy thoughts. He nodded, but he still didn't like the way the day played out. It had been too risky and too random—two things he did not like currently involving McGee.

"I'm still sorry you saw it—sorry it happened to you in the first place, all of it," Tony continued with a sloppy wave of his hand. "See, I sent Ellie down to the evidence garage to go over everything so that you wouldn't accidentally see it if you came into the squad room."

"Why weren't you watching it with her if you're working on something together?" McGee asked. "We usually double up on that kind of thing if we think we missed something the first time. Two sets of eyes being better than one, right?"

Tony swallowed and took the final sip remaining in his glass. He lifted his hand to signal the bartender to deliver another but McGee caught the man's eye across the room and shook his head then motioned a cut off with his hand.

"Tony?" McGee prodded him again.

"I only watched it once myself, the day we got all the evidence from Afghanistan, and that was enough," he confessed. "See, I saw it once and I figured it out. If I had just shut my mouth and stopped needling you about Abby the day it happened, you might have had your chat with Gibbs and the director quickly. Then you'd have been out of the Comm Center before the guns arrived. You'd have been in the chow hall safe and sound with Stan, getting coffee too strong for your sissy palate. Then you would have been on your way out of Afghanistan under your own power in two hours rather than… I'm part of the reason that all happened to you, Tim. Me talking to you nearly got you killed."

His voice grew tight and thin on the last words. McGee stared in shock and a touch of awe. He heard guilt in Tony's voice; he saw blame in his slumping shoulders. Part of the reason for his distance over the summer was now apparent. McGee shook his head.

"You don't know that," McGee said. "I know this much, I was tired that morning—like exhausted to the point that one foot in front of the other would have been a chore. I could see that from the video. If you hadn't been ribbing me, I might not have gotten agitated enough to put my body armor on. If I never did that, then I wouldn't be here. So maybe I should be thanking you for being, you know, a jackass. Apparently, that character flaw of yours does have some redeeming uses on occasion."

Tony looked at him hard for a moment then pounded his fist on the table as he through his head back and laughed deeply. As he continued to chuckle, he palmed his forehead and nodded. McGee smirked, not sure it was his job to make Tony feel better considering how he had been treating him for the last few months; however, some of Tony's behavior was starting to make sense.

"My finer qualities aside," Tony announced as he pointed accusingly across the table, "you have developed of a bad habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Today in the evidence garage; back in Afghanistan. You gotta be more careful, or one of these days it'll get you…"

He stopped himself mid punchline as he realized it wasn't funny so much as it was true, or nearly had been.

"Killed?" McGee offered. "Me? Nah. Abby say's I've got 2.7 lives—she developed an equation and everything that she claims proves it. I haven't checked her math, but when's the last time she was wrong about something in her lab?"

He smiled at the joke and waited for Tony to seek an explanation or give some retort referencing inferiority or a McName, but he received none. Instead, his companion remained sullen as he stared into his empty glass.

"I thought you wouldn't make it," Tony admitted. "The morning that Boss called from Germany to tell me what happened to you, I thought you'd be dead before the day was done. It was like Kate all over again, just in slow motion."

McGee stared at him in amazement. All pretense, all facades, all smooth controlled demeanor was gone. Tony sat opposite him, raw and shaken, staring with abject sorrow washing over his face.

"Boss made me talk to Dr. Kate's Sister," Tony scoffed. "Made me get my head shrunk. She wanted me to admit that I was scared. Ha. Me, scared? I wasn't, not really. See, scared, I could handle. Scared, I could process. Scared is not so bad. Scared keeps you sharp sometimes. No, scared wasn't the problem at all."

McGee let him fall silent and waited a healthy pause before prompting him.

"Then what was it?" McGee asked, not sure what the 'it' was in this context and figuring the amount of Scotch as much as Tony's ego was what was fueling this discussion.

"The problem was that I was certain," Tony revealed with sigh dripping with finality and defeat. McGee looked at him blankly. "Absolutely, with no shred of doubt and without the slightest ray of hope, certain. I knew, was completely convinced, you were a dead man. I was going to bury another partner—the one I've known the longest… who's family to me, the geeky younger brother I never wanted but somehow can't imagine living without anymore. See, I was sure I going to your funeral—knew which suit I'd wear even, had it all picked out in my head. Figured I'd probably be asked to say a few words, you know after they asked Gibbs and he refused because Boss doesn't do the eulogy thing. I was also certain that I would have to decline as well because I couldn't face that. Not losing you. There have been too many funerals in my career, McGee. I said after the last one that I didn't want to go to any ever again, and I sure as hell didn't want the next one to be yours. If someone has to die, I have a list of my preferences, and you're not on it. You're supposed to be the one who speaks at my funeral—you know, when I die at like 93 in some circumstance that would make Hugh Hefner proud."

McGee was struck silent by the confession and the emotion in Tony's voice. He felt a lump in his throat and was unsure what to say. That, he realized, was his guidepost for what to do next; or rather, what Tony himself would do when faced with an emotional situation he was not prepared to process or acknowledge.

"I just can't see that," McGee shook his head and received a questioning if cloudy gaze from Tony.

"You think I didn't care that you were hurt and that didn't want you to die?" Tony gaped. "Tim, okay, I can be an ass but how could you not know that…"

"No," McGee cut him off. "I mean I just doubt that you're even capable of making Hugh Hefner proud now. What makes you think you'll improve enough to make a difference by the time you're 93?"

Tony froze as though the words took a long time to make it to his brain and process. Once they did, he gaped then blinked. He next scowled briefly then he scrunched his eyes as he threw his head back and laughed loudly.

"Here I am, getting all open and heartfelt, but what do you do?" he shook his head as he tried to regain his composure. "You dive into the shallow end. You know, I can't figure why women think you're the sensitive one out of the two of us."

McGee shook his head and rolled his eyes.

"Yes, I'm certain that's a huge mystery to everyone who's ever met both of us," he replied.

"Aha!" Tony rebounded quickly as he pounded a fist on the table. "Speaking of mysteries, are you still maintaining that rouse that you have an afterhours McPlaymate? I'm calling your bluff on her. Either she's done with you or you just made that story up a few weeks ago."

McGee sighed as the sensitive part of the discussion, the Tony being sensitive part anyway, disappeared in the blink of an eye.

"She's still very much around and in my life," McGee asserted. "Why do you think otherwise?"

"Evidence—or rather the lack of any," Tony proclaimed. "First off, you had a pretty hellish day but your dates for the night to seek comfort are me and Ducky. Next, you aren't haunting your phone for text messages or missed calls from her. Your insecure need to know she remembers who you are should have kicked in by now. Admit it. You're on your own, McSolo."

McGee let the comment slide. Tony didn't need to be buzzed on Scotch to be overbearing, but McGee wasn't sure he owed it to Tony to tell him about Abby. McGee was not sure how others would react when they found out they were seeing each other and had kept that secret. He considered it a fair trade seeing as they had been investigating something about Afghanistan and a retired petty officer who had a long ago connection to McGee's father without telling him. However, the twist he felt in his gut as he made that rationalization seemed to have pettiness at its root.

Tony took his lack of argument as an enticement to continue the debate.

"Fine, I'll play your game and call your bluff for real," Tony said. "When can I meet her? She's obviously someone who should be vetted. After all, she's dating you. The women you attract are a little sketchy. You go for the crazy chicks who steal your identity and the crazy chicks who are secret assassins. Do you see the pattern? I'm not saying it's entirely your fault. I've met your grandmother and your sister. You've been outnumbered by crazy women most of your life so it's no wonder you go for that kind."

"Penny and Sarah?" McGee wondered. "Not going to mention my mother, too?"

"Whoa, a little respect, McGee," Tony scolded. "Carol is a sweet and understanding lady. Hey, is she coming to visit? Your birthday is coming up. She should come see us for that."

"Us?" McGee repeated. "Your inebriated haze aside, you do remember that's she's my mother not yours, right?"

"That's pretty selfish of you," he scoffed. "Some of us don't have moms anymore, and we certainly don't have moms who look like Sybil Sheppard and make homemade cookies. Is she going to visit and bring us some cookies? I can take her to lunch if you're too busy with Vance's little computer project. I haven't seen Carol in a while. We could catch up."

The man's expression was slightly sappy and threatening to get worse. McGee figured he should drive Tony home soon, and the last thing he needed was to listen to an entire itinerary of all the activities the man would do with McGee's mother if she came to visit, but he smirked at the thought.

"Well, if _my_ mother does visit at any point, I'll mention to her that you'd like a pony ride and a balloon," McGee said. "That sound fair?"

"Does she know about your imaginary girlfriend?" Tony asked.

McGee sighed as he realized there really was no point in keeping the truth from Tony other than the sheer entertainment value McGee got from watching his partner's frustration.

"She's not imaginary," McGee said. "Things are getting serious between us."

"Serious?" Tony wondered with keen interest. "Like she's offered you a key to her place and a drawer for your stuff, but you're not sure if you should accept it kind of serious?"

McGee shook his head. He figured there was no point in mentioning that he had had a key to Abby's place for a long time as they were each other's spare key holder and had been for years. As for his stuff, he had learned recently that she still possessed several of his T shits from long ago so in a technical sense, he'd had a drawer for his stuff at her place for more than a decade.

"We're past that stage," McGee said. "If you'd bothered to talk to me in the last couple months, you'd know that she's been staying over at my place more than her own for a quite a while now."

Tony shook his head and fixed McGee with a pitying gaze. He waved his hands in a gesture to indicate things need to stop or slow down.

"Have you learned nothing from me?" Tony demanded. "You can get comfy at her place—there's no real danger in that. Just never let her start marking territory at yours. Women change things; they touch your stuff; they rearrange things and decorate with candles and wooden things."

"Candles and wooden things?" McGee blinked in confusion.

"McGee, your apartment is your castle," Tony continued in a profound tone. "Well, yours is more like a pathetic, boring dungeon… half a cell in a pathetic, boring dungeon actually, but it's yours. That is your kingdom, completely dorky though it is. You need to protect it. Channel your inner Elf Lord. Unless… Are you talking about moving in with her? McGee, you went through this with Delilah. At least you were involved with her for a while. Isn't this a little sudden? We haven't even met this woman—it is a woman, right?"

Across the room, Ducky stood at the bar with his recently arrived companion. Both observed the two agents locked in a discussion neither of the older men could hear but that they could decipher all the same. Tony was lecturing McGee, attempting to be both helpful and superior at the same time. McGee accepted the prodding in a passive manner, doing his best to inject what he felt were logical counter points only to have them easily batted aside as frivolous regardless of their merit. Ducky smiled at the exchange, feeling it was long overdue. It was not going to heal all the wounds caused by the protracted distance between the two friends, but it certainly was a good suture in the gaping wound. He nodded his satisfaction to the man at his elbow who was also watching the duo.

"So you never answered me, Jethro," Ducky remarked. "Are you lurking for effect or surveillance?"

Both men gazed into the mirror over the bar to see the two agents seated opposite each other. There was tension between them, but it was more the normal bantering frustration than the coldness that had hung about them recently.

"Just watching," Gibbs replied from his shadowy spot in the corner. "How's he doing?"

Ducky raised his eyebrows and determined Gibbs was asking about the younger of the two men.

"Quite well for someone who experienced and emotional avalanche today," Ducky replied. "The cascade of memories that let loose nearly overwhelmed him, but he hung on and rode out the worst of it until he found solid ground to stand on again. Whether the torrent ceased because that is all he can recall or if his mind put an end to it as a protection, I cannot say. Nor can Dr. Cranston, who Timothy wisely called not long after everything occurred. He actually asked me to sit in on his phone call with her this afternoon so that I could assure others in the office that he was not losing his mind but rather that he had found some of it. I suspect he did that mostly so that I could report as much to you. Although unorthodox, Rachel agreed to let me observe. I am not an expert, but it seems to me that most of what is troubling Timothy is a combination of lost and repressed memories. His subconscious is trying to get at his repressed memories and his conscious mind is punishing him for those he lost."

Gibbs grunted. He didn't usually put much stock in psychology, but that didn't make what it had to offer total fiction.

"This about his father?" he guessed.

"In addition to the evidence he found today, yes," Ducky replied. "The memories of his father are the ones he wants back the most, but he'll also take whatever else his mind dregs up, no matter how confusing or painful. He expressed to Rachel today that he is afraid he lost more than just the memories of his father's passing. Unsurprisingly, Timothy was not yet done with grieving the man's loss when he then lost the hardest memory of them all: Admiral McGee's death. As you know, Timothy had a complicated and difficult relationship with his father and losing any memories of him makes those old wounds fester."

"No, Duck," Gibbs shook his head. "He had a complicated and difficult relationship with a naval officer. Admiral McGee wasn't a father to Tim most of the time."

Ducky noted the resentment. Gibbs was never impressed with the Admiral's interactions with his son and was angered by the man's choice to maintain his distance. For Gibbs, a man denied the ability to have an ongoing relationship with his only child, the thought of anyone choosing to throw away that gift was unforgivable.

"Regardless of that, it doesn't lessen Timothy's affection for the man," Ducky reminded him. "As he can be so very private about his personal life, no one but he can know the extent to which they mended their relationship before the Admiral died. There is a chance that even Timothy no longer knows."

"So what if no more of these repressed memories get found?" Gibbs asked. "What happens if there's nothing more for him to find?"

"He will need to deal with that and accept it," Ducky replied. "Having his other family, his teammates and Abigail, around him with their support will be invaluable regardless of what he does or does not find buried in his memory."

Gibbs snorted at the subtle chiding.

"Point taken, Duck," he said as he watched his two agents continue their discussion across the room. "What about those two? This the kiss and make up they need? I need both of them the put their heads on straight again."

"Like any family, they need each other, and they both know it," Ducky remarked. "This is a good start. Time, Jethro, that is what they need and it appears that is what they shall have."

"Did McGee take Tony's keys yet?" Gibbs asked, prepared to interrupt their chat to do just that if needed

"No need," Ducky grinned proudly while fishing the ring out of his own pocket. "I nicked them myself earlier when I brushed past Anthony while getting out of the booth. My hands may not be quite as rock steady as they once were, but they did the trick this evening. You know, this reminds me of a man I knew in Yorkshire named Mr. Dabney. Yes, he was a professional pickpocket in his youth and…."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Georgetown—Wisconsin Avenue, NW_**

McGee walked Tony toward his car with some effort. His partner kept wanting to stop in mid stride and continue the discussion, as if walking and speaking was too difficult a combination for him at that moment; however, if McGee knew one thing about Tony it was his ability to talk through anything. A simple nudge to keep moving kept the older man's feet ambulating toward the car at the curb.

As McGee got the passenger door open, Tony decided this might be the best time to let McGee know that he was savvy about a few things being kept off the radar lately. Considering his friend was talking about serious discussions with some woman Tony had never met, it seemed wise to make sure this was not just a reaction to being indirectly rejected by his old squeeze once again.

"I know about Abby," Tony offered boldly.

McGee blinked as his chin dropped slightly. It shocked him that Tony knew and yet had maintained his adamancy earlier that he knew nothing about McGee's relationship. That did not add up for him. He looked at him sideways with doubt.

"You do?" McGee questioned. "Then why are you asking me questions about my life after hours?"

"Because I wanted to make sure you weren't rushing into something and making a mistake—which I think you might be," Tony said as he leaned heavily on the car. "If you want to make Abby jealous…"

"Make Abby jealous?" McGee repeated. "Why would I do that?"

"Well, it's what you're trying to do by moving in with your new mystery girl might do it, but I don't see how it helps you any," Tony shook his head. "Tim, you'll be living with one woman, but you'll be thinking of another. While that sounds fun—a have your cake and Edith too situation… Is her name Edith by the way?"

McGee chuckled as he realized Tony's confusion and misinformation. McGee decided he had had enough of secrets and subterfuge. There was no logical reason to keep up the charade any longer. Gibbs knew as did Ducky. Plus, McGee figured it would make life easier, especially if he was brought back to the squad room in the near future. Keeping secrets was not the way to build trust with his team again. Of course, there would still be a requirement to keep interactions with Abby at the office professional, but McGee figured it would be less stressful on her as she never liked keeping the secret in the first place.

"Tony, my girlfriend is Abby," McGee informed him.

"Okay, that is just twisted that you went and found another woman named Abby," Tony said shaking his finger at him. "If she's got dark hair and tattoos, I'm getting you some therapy."

"No need, I'm getting plenty, thanks," McGee said off-handedly. "But about Abby, yes. She does have dark hair and tattoos. Tony, my Abby _is_ Abby."

Tony squinted at him in confusion.

"Your Abby is happy?" he scoffed. "Well, good for her and whatever it is you do to keep her that way—just don't tell me 'cause I don't need that level of detail."

"No, Tony," McGee scoffed. "I didn't say she's happy. I mean, she is, but…."

"My Abby, I mean our Abby—the NCIS one, is happy too," Tony continued. "She's happily involved with some rocket guy or something. She calls him _sweetie_ on the phone and has his picture stashed somewhere around her desk. I couldn't find it, but I have it from a reliable source that it's there somewhere. I'm sorry if that breaks your heart, Tim, but don't go shacking up with your stunt double in an effort to get over losing Abby to someone else. It won't turn out well for you."

"For the record, this is the second time I've told you I'm dating Abby," McGee huffed. "Granted, the first time I just gave you an obvious hint that you ignored. This time, I'm telling you straight: I'm in a relationship with Abby Scuito. I have been since July."

"Please, since when am I gullible?" Tony shook his head. "You didn't even get back from Texas until July. Do you have a fake Abby? You don't, do you? Is it a clone or like a doll? They're both kind of sick, but one is worse than the other. I need to get you some help. Where's my phone? I should call someone."

"You're not calling anyone, I don't more help, and I don't have a fake Abby," McGee said testily as he pushed Tony into the passenger seat. "I'm dating Abby. I helped her move into her new place recently, and I'm moving in with her soon."

"Oh, I get it," Tony laughed from his seat as McGee slammed the door on him. He could hear Tony's chuckle through the windows. "You're going to be her roommate, and you think that's going to get you somewhere with her. So, your Abby is the real Abby, but she's not really your girlfriend. She's just your friend who is a girl. Yeah, you got me, McGee. I was almost ready to believe you had a real McFriend. Are you going to be able to handle it when Abby brings her boyfriend to her place?"

McGee rolled his eyes as he started the car and pulled into the street.

"I'll be fine with it, Tony," he assured him. "It turns out, I know the guy really well. I like him. I'm a huge fan of his."

"You are?" Tony blinked and gaped. "You seriously know him?"

"Uh huh," McGee nodded. "I introduced them a long time ago."

"Wow," Tony sighed as he clumsily placed his hand on McGee's shoulder and fixed him with a sympathetic stare. "That's gotta sting. You're responsible for her meeting the guy that made her give up her pigtails."

McGee shot a look of confusion at his passenger. Tony nodded, feeling he needed to explain and deliver the blow easily to his partner.

"She's put her hair in a ponytail a couple times recently, and I noticed," he said somberly. "See, once I found out about her guy, I knew that was the reason for the change. McGee, women only change their hair when they've got something going on with a man. When they cut their hair short, the relationship is over. When they just change the style, they're trying to impress him. That's like deep psychology."

"It's definitely deep something," McGee nodded. "Tony, she wore her hair differently one day because one of her hair ties snapped when she was getting dressed and she didn't have a spare with her. She wasn't going to wear her hair down in the lab so she pulled it back with one. It didn't mean anything other than she was running late for work."

Tony nodded, not listening.

"She's serious about this guy, Tim," Tony assured him sadly. "You should prepare yourself. She kept her relationship hush-hush—even from me. I'm telling you, I've got a sense about this. This one is not her typical fling. I think… I think it might be the one. Sorry, man."

McGee smirked.

"I don't need your pity or your sympathy, Tony," McGee replied. "I actually hope that you're right. Speaking of that, I should call her. Feel free to listen and not understand what I'm… Tony?"

A soft snoring noise sounded from the passenger seat signaling Tony was no longer paying attention to the discussion. McGee sighed and activated his Bluetooth.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Abby's House_**

McGee parked in the driveway and watched as the front door opened, spilling more light onto the porch. Abby stepped outside wearing her skeleton PJ's and a black hoodie while sporting a concerned expression. McGee had called her as he left Georgetown after deciding driving all the way to Tony's apartment was more time that he wanted to spend in the car with his passed out partner. As McGee climbed out, he waved apologetically to Abby who surveyed him with an uncertain expression and folded arms.

"Tony, let's go," McGee shook his shoulder waking him before starting to tug him out of the car.

"Are we home, Scarecrow?" Tony chuckled. "This doesn't look like Kansas, and she doesn't look like Auntie Em. Hi, Abby!"

"Just get out of the car," McGee said testily. "Come on. Stand up."

"Wow, listen to you with the orders, McNotGibbs," Tony chuckled. "You look mad. Did someone drop a house on your sister? It can't surprise you that happened. After all, considering what your sister is like, you had to see that coming. Ha! Come on. Laugh a little, McChuckles."

"Yeah, you're hilarious," McGee groaned as he helped Tony out of the car. "Let's go. There's a couch with your name on it."

He struggled at first to keep his partner walking relatively straight as Tony found something insanely funny and kept doubling over laughing, nearly dragging McGee down with him with each guffaw. After a few nudges in the ribs with an elbow, Tony got with the program. They made it up the steps to meet Abby's concerned eyes.

"Hey, look, it's Abby again," Tony laughed as they entered the house through the door she held open for them. "Abby, guess what? My little McBuddy here still has a crush on you. I know you've got a little action going on with your Rocket Man, but if he bores you, you should give McGoo another chance. I can vouch for him. He's very loyal—like a pet dog, and you like dogs."

To emphasize the point, Tony pet McGee's head. McGee suffered through the treatment for several shuffled steps toward the couch where he unceremoniously dumped Tony onto it. He was with it enough not to fall into a heap face first. Instead, he collapsed rather gracefully into the corner and grinned at the ceiling.

"This is a nice house, Abby," he announced. "What sort of style is this? It's old, but nice. You need to have a party here. We could call people to come over now. I like parties. I like people. I like people at parties."

"That's nice," McGee sighed as he turned his eyes to Abby. "Now stop talking and go to sleep."

"Being rude won't win you a lady's affection, Timmy," Tony muttered. "That's your problem. You've got no charm. And I've… _sunshine, on a cloudy day…_ "

McGee shook his head and rolled his eyes as his partner continued to sing in a muttering way as he grew comfortable on the couch and settled into it for the night.

"Good night, Tony," McGee said as he led Abby toward the kitchen.

She accompanied him, her weariness from a long day forgotten as she observed the two men. Tony had obviously over indulged for the evening but was in a playful mood (or had been until he started snoring). McGee was oddly calm—the old calm that she recognized from long before Afghanistan. It was late and he should be at his apartment, fighting to stay awake while he read just one more chapter of whatever book captured his attention that evening, yet he was standing in her house looking tired but relaxed.

"Why aren't you at home?" she asked urgently. "What were you two doing out tonight?"

"Ducky and I went to dinner since neither of us have a birthday today, then Tony joined us," McGee explained. "It was kind of an unexpected day at the office all around. Look, I'm sorry about dumping Tony here, but I didn't feel up to driving all the way to his place then all the way back to mine."

"I don't mind," she assured him. "Tony's loaned me his couch in the past. So, what happened today? And since when does Tony go out for some hard core drinking on a school night? What did I miss at the office?"

McGee sighed and, rather than answer directly, pulled her into a warm embrace. He was tired but not weary—a difference that he noticed for the first time in longer than he cared to remember. Memory, he realized, was a tricky thing. It could exhaust and excite at the same time. He chuckled softly as he realized that in that way it was a bit like Abby.

"Care to tell me the joke?" Abby asked as she rested her head on his shoulder.

"There was nothing funny about today, I mean other than Tony saying he thinks I'm stalking you through a surrogate Abby," he remarked still holding her close.

"Tim?" she persisted. "What's going on?"

"I remembered Afghanistan," he said softly and felt her stiffen in his arms. "Not all of it—not the shooting—just some of what happened before that. We found some evidence that got missed. I talked to Dr. Cranston about it. She said I might remember more things now."

"Are you okay?" Abby asked stepping back and looking at him with concern.

"I think so," McGee shrugged. "Abby, it wasn't terrorism at all. This all started because of a drug ring. Apparently, Tony and Bishop have been investigating it all this time. I don't know what's going on completely, but I think I can help them with it now."

Abby sighed as she shook her head and stroked his cheek.

"Honey, Vance and Gibbs aren't letting you investigate anything," she reminded him. "Dr. Cranston is helping you, but just going to few a sessions with her isn't enough to get you certified to return to field work."

"No, you don't understand," he shook his head as a smile drew on the corners of his mouth. "The laptop I pirated in July has information in it that involves the Navy and a variety of connections to the Afghan poppy crops, and it's related to what happened to me in Helmand Province. "

"It is?" she guessed.

"Yeah, heroin and morphine—the kind legally made in the Afghan labs but maybe not legally sold afterward—being transported and traded," he suggested and grinned slightly drawing a puzzled look from her. "I know drug smuggling isn't a reason to smile, but… I'm part of this investigation as an investigator. I get that I'm not cleared to chase down a suspect, but I can still help with the case. Abby, as I was driving over here, I realized some of what Vance has me working on relates to what we found today. I don't know why someone was looking into my financial records for certain, but I think they were checking into whether I was just a victim of this crime or if I was involved. That tells me this thing, whatever it is, is big. Tony and Ellie need my help."

"Well, of course they do," Abby sighed. "You guys are a team."

He smiled tiredly but hopefully, feeling what she said about them being a team was true for the first time since the previous spring. Abby squeezed his hand while keeping her inner uncertainty to herself. Whether Vance and Gibbs would let him continue to work on a case in which he was tangentially involved, she did not know; however, for his continued optimistic outlook, she hoped they did allow him to assist.

"I'm glad you figured some things out today, but it's time to power down and turn off the office thoughts, okay?" she said as she nodded encouragingly.

"I'm tired, but I'm not going to sleep," he shook his head. "Abby, for all I know, everything I think I forgot, I didn't actually forget. Maybe now if I just…"

"No," she shook her head firmly. "McGee, it's great you remember something that was helpful, but you can't force your mind to work like a hard drive whose encryption you just cracked. Sweetie, it doesn't work that way. Now, it's getting late, and I can see you're tired. Tell me you're not driving back to Silver Spring."

McGee hesitated before answering. Driving back to his place was not something he felt like doing, but he had also avoided sleeping at Abby's in all this time. He was not looking forward to bedding down for the night in a coffin. In the past, it had not bothered him… much. However, since flirting with dying, the thought of willingly lying down in a casket did not conjure thoughts of restful sleep. However, he knew he was too whipped to drive the nearly 40 minutes back to his apartment.

"You're staying," Abby said, sensing his inner debate and making the decision for him. "It's too bad we're not alone—we could, you know, celebrate your first sleepover."

McGee looked over her shoulder into the darkened living room where Tony slumbered in a twisted mess of limbs and pillows. McGee sighed disappointedly in the presence of their company. Abby followed his gaze with a smirk.

"So what's with Tony?" Abby asked. "Was he celebrating or drowning sorrows?"

"He's… processing," McGee said diplomatically as Abby tugged his arm around her shoulders and turned off the kitchen lights while they walked toward the stairs. "The case he thought he closed got turned on its head today, and then… He had to get something off his chests. Oh, and after that, I told him about you and me, but I don't think he believed me."

"He tied one on because he has a new case and found out about us?" she questioned as they started up the stairs.

"That's the Cliff Notes summary," McGee yawned. "Although he learned about us after he'd already had a few. I think that's the part he'll find the hardest to understand while he nurses his hangover in the morning."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Kitchen—Abby's Home_**

The knot in his back woke Tony before any other aches, of which thankfully there were few. Sure, there was a little throb in his head and his mouth tasted like he had been slowly wallowing a sock for a few hours, but overall it was one of the least painful hangovers of his life. After a few groans to accompany his stretching, he was up and walking toward the light in the kitchen.

The morning was still dark as the sun was taking its time peeking over the horizon. It was the scent of coffee as much as his little twinges and throbs that woke him up. He had been glad, when his eyes did open, that he recalled where he was. He was, however, a little hesitant to step into the kitchen as he spied Abby with her back to him as she stood near the sink.

"Wow, imagine meeting you here," Tony joked carefully as he tried to assess her mood based on her posture.

McGee was nowhere in sight but a quick glance out the kitchen window revealed his car was in the driveway. Tony glanced around the kitchen and small dining area off to the side and did not see his partner. He was not sure if he was hoping for McGee to arrive in the room and break the tension or if his arrival would make things more uncomfortable. Tony was relieved of the stress of wondering as Abby turned around as she handed him a large mug filled to the rim with very dark coffee. Tony's anxious expression melted as he saw she was smiling.

"I think I love you," he said accepting the offering.

"I know," Abby nodded. "Need anything for your head?"

"No," he shook his head as he gratefully inhaled over his mug. "I'm good. So, thanks for loaning me the couch. Sorry I didn't call in advance for a reservation."

Abby smiled and waved off the apology.

"We're even," she assured him. "Although, you might want to note that I just gave you coffee; the morning I woke up on your couch, you didn't have a Caf-Pow waiting for me."

"I'll make it up to you," he promised. "So, is my memory messed up or is it true you and my partner are McFriendly again?" He deduced the answer from the sly grin on her face. "I'm pretty sure you and I had a talk about this last spring. Abs, he's seriously into you, like the…"

"Move in and make things long-term kind of serious?" she offered. "Yeah, I know. That's why I asked him; I'm serious, too."

"No, you're not," Tony disagreed with a furrowed brow. When her expression didn't change he raised his eyebrows. "You don't get serious. Do you? Have you? Seriously this time? Why? No, wait. Don't answer that. I'm hungover. I don't need a reason to feel sick. Where is he? Up in the coffin?"

"Sleeping," she answered vaguely.

"Still?" Tony remarked with a smirk. "He wasn't drinking last night so does that mean that he's all tuckered out for some other reason?"

Abby offered him a flat and noncommittal expression.

"After yesterday, he was pretty restless," she said. "I'm letting him sleep for a while longer. He needs it."

"Is he okay?" he asked. "I mean, physically and… you know… otherwise."

What McGee had seen and learned the day before had both shaken him and given him hope. He now firmly believed that any lost memories could be recovered and found a sense of peace as he had a new understanding of the dream that had bothered him so much for so long. However, he was bothered by the pettiness of the crime that nearly took his life. For someone who led a fairly straight-laced and above-board life, getting caught in the middle of a drug ring was unsettling to McGee. But he was bolstered by the thought that he would be welcomed back into the fold as the investigation into the drug ring operating at a Marine base and using Navy ships for transport continued.

"He is doing fantastic in a lot of ways," she said. "And you would know that if you were treating him like the good friend he is."

"Abs, look," Tony shook his head as he began to explain but stopped as she held up her hand.

"I think whatever you talked about last night was a good start, but you and he have a lot to talk about still," she said. "Tony, Tim's been through a lot and not all of it was from what those bullets did."

Tony sighed at the mild scolding and said nothing further. He wasn't sure whether he got his point across to McGee the night before and wasn't even sure if he fully understood what he was trying to say himself. What he did know was that after the discoveries of the day before, there was a lot more to do at the office starting with a call to Parsons (after Gibbs gave the okay) and he was going to need his partner to do some of it.

"I gotta call a cab," Tony yawned. "I've got a change of clothes at the office. I better get there so I can hit the showers and get ready. If I Gibbs see me come in like this, he will give me the mother of all head slaps." He turned toward the door then spun around and asked a question that as scratching at the back of his head. "So, are you and McRomeo going to be fulltime roommates?"

"We're talking about it," Abby answered. "Depends on if he's ready."

"Ready?" Tony repeated. "Abby, he'd have moved in with you after your first date—and I mean the original one back in 2003-it's the reason you dumped him the first time. He was serious; you weren't. If you're both happy, that's great; I'm happy for you. Just keep in mind that McGee's still getting his bearings back after everything. He might walk and talk like the McGee we knew, but he's still a little… off. I saw that yesterday."

Abby folded her arms determined and formed a frank and confident expression on her face.

"I think it's sweet that you're worried for him and trying to look out for him," Abby assured him. "Know what would be better? If you told him that. Tony, ignoring him hurt him, and I think you know that."

"Abby," Tony grinned, "that's not how guys work—not even McGee."

"Okay, between you and Gibbs, I'm tempted to just start slapping heads myself," she said firmly as she held up her hand to let Tony know that she was serious.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	33. Chapter 33

**_A/N:_** _Delay in publishing was unavoidable. New chapters are due on my next novel (see links on my profile page for the first 2) so meeting contractual obligations are taking up my time. Also, the Supernatural fans are screaming for the FF story I promised them a year ago so the NCIS crew is fighting for writing time with currently. Don't worry. I always finish every story. I will not leave you all hanging._

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

McGee arrived at the office and went to his desk rather than the cyber unit. No one had requested his presence, but as far as he knew he also wasn't banned from the room. The previous day he was never asked to give a statement regarding his findings in the evidence garage. Standard protocol dictated one was needed so as soon as his computer sprang to life, he began typing.

Not long after he began, Tony entered the room from the back elevator. He was dressed in different clothing from what he was wearing when McGee dumped him on Abby's couch the previous night. He appeared awake and in order as well. McGee shook his head, as he always did when Tony bounced back from what should have left him feeling like what he was: a guy in his late 40s who behaved like he was in his early 20s.

Tony, for his part, eyed McGee carefully as he breezed by his desk and simply nodded as he sat at his desk and began digging in for the day. His unexpected scoff followed by some aggravated pounding of his mouse.

"Percussive management never makes it work," McGee informed him.

"What?" Tony asked him with a confused expression twisting his face awkwardly.

"The mouse," McGee gestured at the device. "Banging it on your desk won't fix whatever isn't working for you."

"I'll tell you what isn't working—this computer," Tony scowled. "This thing thinks I got my password wrong, but I didn't."

"It's a computer, Tony," McGee sighed. "It can't think; it processes. You're obviously doing something wrong or have broken something on your system. Punishing the mouse is pointless and, to be frank, it's annoying. I'm trying to concentrate over here, okay?"

Tony snorted his dismissal of the rebuke and glared at his machine with narrowed and displeased eyes.

"Well, first off, I'm not so sure computers can't think," Tony charged. "They have a mind of their own somedays. Remember Hal? And what about Joshua?"

McGee was staring at his screen but closed his eyes and bowed his head momentarily as he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from unexpectedly laughing. Just the previous day, he had been looking over his shoulder anticipating a Tony movie reference as pieces of the case fell into place. Hearing two in one sentence was an oddly comforting, but it also let him know the sort of mood Tony was in, assuming he was being serious with his aggravation and not just chattering in an effort to be playful.

"HAL 9000 and Joshua are movie computers—and technically, Joshua was subroutine on a computer," McGee said flatly. "But neither of them are real. You're apparently doing something wrong. Don't blame the computer."

At the utterance of "and technically," Tony couldn't help but smirk. Like the pointless reference to the number of cabs in DC the previous evening, it was all the proof Tony needed that his partner was definitely on the mend; however, the inner works that were of most concern to him were not McGee's but the computer giving him grief that morning.

"Okay, you get points for getting Hal's whole name, but then you lose them for assuming _I DID SOMETHING WRONG_ ," Tony insisted loudly. "I did it right. I know my password. I type it every day. I didn't make a mistake. The computer is the one who is wrong."

"Obviously not," McGee said choosing to ignore his partner's tone while he kept focused on his typed statement. "Did you check whether your caps lock is off? Try that then type slowly, one finger at a time. Remember, if you lock yourself out, you have to call IT."

"Anytime I locked myself out before, you were able to get me back in," Tony said with annoyance and the hint of a pout. "You can't do that anymore?"

"I can," McGee said distantly. "I'm just too busy right now doing my actual job to help you bypass the security protocols because you can't type your password correctly."

Tony's head snapped to the side, and he glared testily at McGee, who did not appear to notice as he became engrossed in his work. Tony scowled and then looked at the keyboard to see (guiltily) that the caps lock light was on. He turned it off with an angry stab at the key then did a few hunt and peck maneuvers. The screen dissolved and brought up his desktop icons. Tony sneered at it.

"You know, this wouldn't happen if I didn't have to keep changing the stupid password every time I sit down," Tony grumbled. "And what's with needing to change the passwords every 45 days? We work in a secure building. No one gets in here who shouldn't be."

Now, it was McGee's turn to scoff. He blinked and shook his head as he replied.

"Really?" he remarked. "Do you want me to list the people who got in here in the last few years who shouldn't?"

Tony gnashed his teeth as he crumbled a piece of paper then threw it at McGee. It ricocheted off his shoulder and bounced harmlessly to the floor. McGee scowled but ignored the action. As quiet fell on the room, a conversation from several weeks earlier during his inquiry came to Tony's mind in reference to his computer woes.

"Hey, how do I get one of those STD things?" he asked suddenly.

McGee ceased typing and turned his head slowly to look at his teammate. His brow wrinkled as he raised is eyebrows and stared in surprise at Tony.

"You want an STD?" he repeated.

"Yeah, I want one of those," Tony insisted as he pushed himself out of his chair and drifted toward McGee's desk and ended up standing behind his chair. "How do I get one?"

"Well, I'm no expert," McGee offered in a slow and flat tone, "but you could try sleeping with every other woman you meet during the week like you used to when we first met."

"What?" Tony's face twisted in confusion. After a brief pause, he felt his hand rise in preparation for a headslap, but halted it before it moved further. "No! Not that. I'm talking about the computer sign-in thingy where I don't need any passwords. I want one of those."

McGee's confusion melted into understanding. He nodded as he translated from Tony into technology.

"You mean an SIV," McGee corrected as he returned his attention to his computer. "You don't want one, Tony."

"Yeah, McGeek, I do," Tony insisted. "A little nerdy bird named Keating told me I can't have one because _you_ went to Vance to make sure I couldn't get one. I wasn't asked my opinion before that happened."

"Because your opinion about it doesn't matter," McGee assured him.

"Why not?"

"Well, I'm going to start by reminding you that you called it an STD a second ago, so you obviously don't know what it is," McGee continued as he turned his eyes again to his monitor and started to work on his report. "I can assure you that if you did know what it is that you wouldn't want a Single Identity Verification, aka SIV. Tony, an SIV won't let you run cell phone traces without logging in warrants first; you can't run a plate search of DMV records from your desktop; you can't search driver's licenses, passport usage or take a look into any of the Homeland Security databases."

Tony puzzled on that possibility and limitation for a minute.

"I couldn't?" he questioned. "Wait, I have access to Homeland databases now?"

He looked suspiciously at his computer to demonstrate his doubt. His already shaky trust in the machine was swiftly plummeting that morning.

"Tony, Immigration and Customs Enforcement is part of Homeland as is the Secret Service and the Citizenship and Immigration Service," McGee reminded him. "You use their databases all the time."

Tony nodded and sighed. He did know that. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook the remaining cobwebs from the previous night from his head. He was almost ready to admit that he needed to try acting his age in his off duty hours more often. McGee watched him thoughtfully as he observed Tony's mind on the verge of giving up on his request. He felt one more nudge should do it.

"You'd also need to contact the cyber unit every time you wanted to go outside the NCIS firewall to do anything with state DMV records or anything with a municipal or state PD," McGee informed him. "Do you want to do that?"

Tony scoffed then shrugged then finally shook his head and muttered a disgruntled no.

"Then you don't want an SIV," McGee summarized superiorly as he turned back to his screen. "I think what you want is to not have to change and memorize your passwords every 45 days. I can't help you there, Tony. That's the price you pay for having amazing search capabilities at your fingertips."

Tony snorted his disapproval but felt a small flutter of normalcy as he took in the scene. McGee, trying hard to accomplish something at his desk, while attempting to school Tony in something technical but only managing to do a mediocre job of focusing on his own work and managing to sound like the resident geek rather than his partner's superior in this area. Tony smirked then reached forward and briefly ruffled the back of McGee's hair before departing for his desk. McGee simply ran his hand over his hair to fix whatever Tony had just done. He cut his eyes swiftly toward his partner and smiled briefly until Tony reached his desk and a second epiphany struck.

"Hold on," Tony proclaimed as his face lit up with inspiration. "I'm the senior field agent. I don't have to do the menial tasks. That's what a probie is for—kind of like how Abby has assistants to do her little checks and tests now—I, too, have minions."

"You don't have any minions," McGee assured him. "There are no probationary agents on Gibbs' team. Also, contrary to your personal definition, agents newer to the team than you are not your personal interns or assistants. Bishop passed her year of probation. Ergo, she is no longer a probationary."

Tony grinned widely as he stood up and leaned on his filing cabinet to leer smugly at McGee. His headache was lifting swiftly and even the harsh orange of the walls seemed comforting as he felt a swell of familiarity in his bones.

" _Ergo_?" Tony repeated dramatically. "Do really think that kind of logic is going to hold up to my scrutiny? What's the matter with you, _Probie_? Oh, did you hear that? I said probie."

Tony cupped his hands at his ears as if capturing a resounding echo in the room that only he could hear. His grin widened to Cheshire Cat proportions. McGee stopped typing and turned in his seat to face his teammate.

"It's one thing to still call me that after more than a decade," McGee said. "It's something else entirely for you to treat me like one. I've got a dozen years as a Special Agent, Tony."

"And yet, you are still my _probie_ ," Tony surmised.

"I really wasn't ever _your_ probie, Tony," McGee argued. "It's Gibbs' team. He didn't give me to you as a gift, a lackey, or a minion. You were just the more senior member of the team when I joined. If I had been your probie, you would have spent your time teaching me rather than just tormenting me."

Other agents in the room perked up at the banter occurring at the center of the squad room. It had been quiet and tense for a long time in that area, to the point that many had dreaded entering the room. However, hearing Gibbs' two longest standing agents chattering, one taunting and the other attempting to remain professional and above the insidious instigating, was like turning back the clock. The rest of the room craned their necks and strained their ears to listen, both entertained and reassured by the asinine conversation.

"Lessons come in many forms, Probie-san," Tony announced commandingly. "I was shaping you, making you into the agent and the man you are today."

"Annoyed and aggravated?" McGee quipped with a sour expression. "Yeah, I agree with that."

"You agree!" Tony clapped his hands as he pounced on the answer. "So, I do believe I won this debate with the single word _probie_. Don't worry, McGee. Elli was never going to take your place."

McGee frowned and sighed. This conversation, he realized, cropped up roughly once per year in some form or other. Tony, despite his seniority, still seemed to need to reinforce his veteran status on the team. When things got overbearing on this topic, McGee would resort to making references to the senior agent's age and the decade separating them. However, this didn't feel like the time to take out that weapon. This was Tony in need of some normalcy and control. Considering the previous day's revelations, McGee wasn't going to begrudge him any stability he needed. McGee also had to admit to himself that the idiotic discussion made him feel at home in the room once again.

"Accept it, McGee," Tony continued gleefully. "No matter what you do, no matter where you go, no matter how many years pass: You are now, you have always been, and you will always be my _p-ro-bie_."

Gibbs walked with a determined stride into the room in that instant and fixed his eyes on his two veteran agents. The eye-rolling expression on the face of one was matched only by the delirious grin on the other. If not for knowing the date, Gibbs could have placed this scene to be at any day in the past decade.

"Did I miss something?" Gibbs asked.

"Just my reminder to McGee about the natural order of the universe," Tony said with a confident smile and predatory leer of his eyes as he looked at McGee.

"What?" Gibbs questioned.

McGee happily offered an explanation that was both factual and satisfying.

"Tony was just asking me to find someone who can give him an STD," McGee remarked as he caught his teammate's face flush a deep and burning red. "I was explaining to him why that's not a good idea."

Gibbs eyed the two agents. The room had certainly been quieter and more conducive to productive work when Tony was without his partner. It wasn't that Gibbs enjoyed his two veteran agents sniping at each other and generally behaving like errant schoolboys in need of a babysitter, but listening to them bicker, settled his mind somewhat. It also reawakened the urge to offer them a combination of glares and headslaps.

And that felt good.

It was normal, expected and precisely what should be occurring on a regular weekday morning. His team was back together for the most part. McGee wasn't yet ready for the field. Cranston would be making that call at some point. How long that would take, Gibbs did not know. He did not want to rush her decision, but he also didn't want it to drag on for another six months. Investigating was a skill like any other. Instincts could dull if not used often enough. Certainly McGee was keeping his fact checking and computer searching skills sharp, but that was altogether different from reviewing physical evidence and working a crime scene. Tony had been off his game since they closed the Simocorp case. He had lost some of his edge and was distracted. Gibbs hoped this morning's antics were a sign the various wounds in the team were finally healing.

"Boss, I drafted a statement yesterday about the hard drive we located in the evidence lock up and I'm just finishing it now," McGee informed him. "It should probably go with whatever Ellie is working on if she's still seizing those bank accounts and looking into Sergeant Marrovich's wife's connection to what happened in Afghanistan."

Gibbs grunted his acknowledgement. There had been a lot pulled together on that front overnight. Bishop had camped at her desk as the assets were seized and US Marshals were sent to pick up the rich Marine widow. She had not gone quietly, either. Mrs. Marrovich was now also facing charges for assaulting a federal marshal. The Marshal Service was transporting her to NCIS for questioning later that day. Gibbs was toying with the idea of letting Bishop do the interrogation but had not settled his mind on it as the turn of events has changed a lot of things. Following his briefing from Tony the previous afternoon, Gibbs had looped in Vance and a decision had been made about pulling in the team and putting them all on the same page with the evidence and various cases that were tied each other together at the moment.

As Gibbs mulled this over, he lifted his eyes to see Vance also observing the scene in the squad room. He met Gibbs' eyes and offered him one of those enigmatic looks that anyone who hadn't had been in the recent meeting between the two could not possibly translate.

But Gibbs could.

The last discussion necessary to allow full disclosure had apparently occurred.

"Conference room," Gibbs said sternly as Tony had begun narrowing his eyes on McGee, signaling he was brewing retaliation possibilities for trying to embarrass the senior agent when Gibbs arrived. "Case review—all of it."

"Campfire," Tony whispered gleefully as he ducked is head and headed toward the stairs.

Gibbs rounded his desk and noted one agent still rooted at his desk. He turned and face McGee who was focusing on his computer screen.

"McGee?" Gibbs barked. "Do you hear me?"

"Yes, you're going to the conference room to talk about a case," he nodded.

"Yeah," Gibbs nodded. "Do I need to send you a written invitation?"

"You want me to join you?" McGee blinked.

"Only if you want to do your job," Gibbs said with a shake of his head as he started toward the stairs. "Let's go."

"On it, Boss," McGee said as a grin erupted on his face.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Conference Room_**

Bishop, who had been sitting in the conference room alone for 20 minutes since the director first summoned her from her desk and asked her to pull up all they had on their open case, was nervous as Gibbs indicated to her that she needed to lead the briefing. Tony seemed taken aback by this but the reason became obvious swiftly: The Boss was looking for chronological order and her discovery came first.

"Six days after the assault on Camp Foxtrot, I was following up on a directive to find out everything there was to know about the men who were in the Comm Center when the shooting started," she said, speaking mostly to McGee as everyone else in the room already knew this. "I had finished my deep background on the deceased Marines when I turned my attention to… well, you." She looked apologetically to McGee. "I made a mistake when typing in you SSN and got an unexpected hit on an old NIS record. The file was created in 1986 by Special Agent Mike Franks."

"Franks?" McGee questioned and looked from Tony to Gibbs for confirmation as Bishop keyed the remote in her hand and brought up a PDF of the case file pages in the plasma screen on the wall. "How did he have a file with my name in it? I didn't meet him until 2006. What's in this file?"

"You really never read it, did you?" Tony asked and shook his head. "You found it in the archive at Norfolk, McGee. How did you never look at it? Oh wait. I forgot what you used to be like. Ellie, did I ever tell you about the first case I worked with McRegulations? He wanted me to get a search warrant to get into a suspect's house when there was an entire submarine facing imminent death at the hands of an eco-terrorist."

McGee scoffed and shook his head at the memory. The urge to point out that he wasn't wrong to do so was strong but hardly was relevant at that moment. Instead, he offered their teammate the Cliff Notes verision.

"Yes, I foolishly thought we should obey the laws we were sworn to uphold," McGee said. "Tony had other ideas so he committed a felony to get into the house by throwing a rock through the guy's window to illegally gain access."

"Exigent circumstances," Tony argued.

"Words from my report establishing a legal argument for why our illegal search and seizure shouldn't be thrown out of court," McGee muttered.

Bishop's eyes widened for two reasons. First, she was not sure what she would have done in McGee place if faced with the choice of being brand-new and needing to follow rules but faced with the possibility that breaking them might save lives… or end your career. She was also surprised to hear the friendly bickering between her two teammates. It was as though the previous 24 hours had forced a seismic shift. Their cold war was thawing swiftly. Gibbs, however, was not impressed.

"If both of you don't pay attention to this case, I throw you both out and I won't need exigent circumstances or a rock to get it done," he said.

Bishop took that as her cue to continue. She laid out the NIS file's details: the alleged crime (murder), the lack of evidence to do a full investigation, the report of a captain's mast for Renner and finally the possible link to the San Francisco cold case with the body found floating in the Bay.

"So a Navy drug connection 30 years ago to an unsolved murder," McGee shrugged. "I get that murder has no statute of limitations and a possible connection to Franks' file gives NCIS jurisdiction, but isn't that more of a job for the teams out of Camp Pendleton? What's the connection to D.C.?"

Gibbs and Tony exchanged a look. Tony bowed his head and let the Boss take over.

"You," Gibbs said.

"I know that's what you're saying, but what is it specifically?" McGee questioned. "I never spoke to Mike Franks before 2006, Boss. Honest. I would definitely remember that. Why did he have my name in a file?

Gibbs sighed and offered him a frank yet thoughtful look.

"McGee, we place the date of the San Francisco murder around the same time Petty Officer Renner was cited for vandalism," Gibbs explained. "That was at the end of a Tiger Cruise in which two young boys got away from their group and were sneaking around in the overhead conduit in the laundry area. You, McGee, and your friend Carter Scott saw or heard something that day and somehow Mike found out. He never had enough evidence to open a murder case—he had no body—but when he heard about the floater in the Bays something made a connection for him. We don't know what."

McGee shook his head. He was certain he would recall someone being murdered in front of him. And he remembered that cruise. He remembered it all too well for several reasons—the leading one being the reason he had to see a therapist after returning from it, but that had nothing to do with a murder.

"Boss, I didn't see anything and I didn't tell anyone I did," McGee insisted.

"That's not what you told me previously," Gibbs reminded him. "You said you told your father's friend, Paul Porter."

"Actually, Carter talked to him," McGee replied. "I was just there, and he didn't believe us. I mean, back there, Carter was… He liked messing around. He was always making up stories back then to get his parents' attention. My parents didn't like me being friends with him, but we were kind of misfits together and that made us friends. Look, he'll tell you himself today that he didn't see anything like a murder I'm sure. Just ask him. He's a Navy Lieutenant Commander with SEAL Team 4. He's in Iraq, or he was the last time I talked to him maybe eight months ago. The Pentagon will know exactly where he is."

"We've tried contacting him," Bishop offered. "He's not available. The Pentagon said he has been on a classified mission since April. They're going to make him available to us when he is done with that assignment."

"Then you didn't ask the right person," McGee said firmly. "I've been able to find Carter when he's on classified missions. I'm actually his… I'm the person they'll call if he gets killed. He doesn't have any family and we've stayed friends all these years so I'm his emergency contact. Just give me an hour and I can find someone who…"

"We're talking to you," Gibbs said, cutting through the rising tension.

"Boss, I'm telling you, nothing happened on that cruise," McGee shook his head emphatically. "Nothing involving a murder anyway. I mean, come on. Someone getting murdered on a Navy ship and there's no body or evidence to show there was a murder? How likely is that? Vandalism is a far cry from murder."

He looked pleadingly at Bishop, recalling the phone call from Mr. Renner. The man was irritated to be questioned about a small blemish on his record. He had not acted like someone who was hiding secrets about a murder.

"Tim, there's more evidence that makes us believe there is something to this," she said kindly.

"What do you remember exactly?" Gibbs asked cutting in. "You went on that cruise. You and your buddy ran a little wild when no one was watching you. He told you he saw something happen. You both told your father's friend, Paul Porter. Then what?"

McGee's jaw clenched instantly as did his hands at the mention of the man. He was not even aware he reacted in such a way. Gibbs met the eyes of his two other team members then jerked is head to the side, silently dismissing them from the room. McGee watched them with concern as they stood up and departed the room.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Hallway_**

Tony wandered back and forth along the mezzanine level while Bishop leaned on the wall with her arms folded tightly in front of her. She pursed her lips then scowled.

"What do you think they're talking about?" she asked.

"Obviously… things the Boss wants to discuss with McGee before letting us know," Tony said hoping he had masked his uncertainty.

"So you don't know exactly either?" Bishop remarked. "Okay, so we know it's about the Tiger Cruise and Gibbs thinks McGee will be more comfortable talking to just him. Don't you think?"

Tony half shrugged and half nodded. Gibbs didn't usually ask to clear a room during a question and answer period unless he was going to do something he didn't want witnessed or shared with anyone else. Tony doubted the Boss was going to threaten McGee. It wasn't the man's style—not with his team members anyway. He might growl. He might leer. He might shout, but the worst they ever got was a headslap or (in the worst circumstances) the cold shoulder. Ton couldn't see Gibbs doing any of that to McGee—not at this time.

"Honestly, I don't know," Tony replied. "When McGee said nothing happened, I believed him. Or, I should say, believe he thought he was telling the truth. Of course, considering what I've found out about that shrink he saw in the days following the cruise, I wouldn't be surprised if what he remembers isn't what really happened."

Bishop's jaw dropped and she looked at the closed door with a tidal wave of sympathy flooding her expression as Tony continued to explain. The reports on former Navy officer Pamela Reeves were not encouraging. While her record in the Navy seemed to have no spots, her time as a civilian therapist was a different story. Tony had finally tracked down some of the woman's former coworkers who had a different story to tell than the official state agency's version of why Reeves was let go.

On the job, she dealt with a variety of social service issues with families under state scrutiny, but she had an afterhours practice. That one seemed to focus primarily on children—those of Navy personnel. That in itself was not suspicious, but Tony had done more digging and found that she seemed to have the same practice while she was at Alameda and before that at Coronado. Again, not precisely odd, but she did not seem to take payment for her services or keep records of her treatment session with the base; the families were never billed, yet she seemed to take in payment above that of her normal pay.

"Something drove Reeves, a solid head doctor by all professional references, to turn into a drunk and a junkie," Tony offered. "I know of one thing that can push a pro over the edge like that: guilt."

"You think she knew something and kept a secret?" Bishop said. "Like she knew about the murder and made McGee forget about it?"

"I think it started before she ever got to Alameda, but something there pushed her over the edge," Tony replied. "I'm pretty sure now that whatever that is, it's also the main reason Gibbs didn't want us to contact McGee over the summer. I think he was worried we'd let something slip and ask McGee a question he wasn't ready to answer or couldn't handle while he was still held together with thread and medical tape. The doctors said no stress. I figure if there's a hole in the major artery leading to your hear that you're trying to med, blood pressure is something you need to watch, right? Well, I'm pretty sure, considering the agitation we just saw from McGee when he's healthy again, that Boss was right to put out the gag order."

Bishop nodded her understanding. She knew first hand now how wily McGee could be when he felt information was being kept from him. He had tricked her into revealing details about the investigation (starting with the fact one existed) without her noticing until it was too late. Total radio silence was sounding more like a good idea than a cruel rule on Gibb's part.

"Think he'll understand that now and forgive us for hurting his feelings?" she asked.

McGee and feelings? Tony made a noncommittal noise in his throat. For being someone Tony normally felt he could read like a book, McGee was actually a bit of an enigma when he wanted to be. He could keep secrets better than most people Tony knew. From having a sister, to publishing a book to his current fling with Abby, determining what McGee felt about anything was actually a tricky proposition.

"I think he'll get over it," Tony said without placing any bets on whether 'getting over it' included actual forgiveness. So far that morning, Tony didn't feel any distance or anger from his partner. Then again, eh reminded himself, he spent the night at his girlfriend's house and who knew what spell Abby had him under lately.

"Hey, did you know McGee's been secretly dating someone here at the office?" Tony asked abruptly.

"By someone you mean Abby?" Bishop countered and received a wide-eyed stare from Tony. "Yeah. I've know. I've seen them together. They used to date, right? Well, it looks like they're back together. Why? Is that a problem?"

Tony scoffed and said nothing more. The answer to her question was yes, it was a problem. McGee, while dating Abby, was easy going and generally left his grumpy and gloomy moods packed way for the rainy day when she would dump him. And that was the problem. Abby was going to dump him at some point, Tony was certain of it. Sure, he did not doubt that she loved McGee. They had a weird, geeky bond that let them understand each other in ways that few others seemed to, but she was still Abby. She was the queen of impermanence. She didn't do long term anything and close intimate relationships for her tended to go south once she realized things were solidifying into something that might last. It was as if her love life had a suicide gene and once activated, it would kill off her relationship and set her free to go look for someone new.

That her someone new currently was someone from the past was certainly strange, to the point of being flat out bizarre to Tony. Nor was it a concern for him (at that moment). He would deal with depressed and newly single McGee once Abby had burned through this relationship for a second time. For now, he was mostly concerned with what was going on in the next room.

"Ellie, it's easy to forget now that he's okay how hurt McGee was," Tony said. "He's forgotten that himself. Now, from the mini-lecture Abby gave me, we did a job on McGee's feelings and confidence when we shut him out over the summer, but it was the lesser of the evils as I see it the more I learn about this case. Feelings of rejection he can get over in time; damaging his heart by unknowingly tripping over some repressed memories that triggered a spike in his blood pressure could have left permanent damage. That's just a fact. We did the right thing, even if we didn't know why we were doing it. That is something he will understand. What we need to know now is what he does actually remember and where we go now that we can talk about the case."

Bishop took in what he was saying and felt there was much more he could be saying.

"You didn't think Gibbs was right to keep us away from Tim over the summer," she surmised. "And you're mad he didn't tell you his whole reason."

Tony gave her a look that gave her points for getting the assessment right but that refused to acknowledge it verbally. The more Bishop thought about it now, the more Gibbs' approach made a weird kind of sense. It was Tony's mention of possible repressed memories that had understanding dawning on her face. Of the many things she still was not used to since joining this team, the colossal and eerily accurate determinations of Gibbs' gut (often without any tangible foundation for being so) was still the leading one.

"Gibbs knew McGee had memory issues when he was in the hospital," Bishop nodded with recollection. "It wasn't just that he didn't remember the attack. It was that he forgot his father was dead. Repressed memories. We found the NIS file and he questioned McGee in the hospital who said he didn't remember anything. We already knew he had seen Reaves after that cruise. Gibbs knew all along someone might have messed with Tim's memory."

"Yeah, news flash: Gibbs knows his team," Tony nodded. "Whatever he's talking to McGee about now and however he's doing it, you can bet the boss has been planning this since McGee woke up at Johns Hopkins."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Conference Room_**

Gibbs leaned forward with a determined expression. His pale blue eyes were hard but not scolding. His tone was adamant but not aggressive.

"Tell me about Porter," Gibbs said.

"He's a navy flag officer," McGee shrugged. "He knew my father—was on the Admiral's staff for a lot of years starting when the Admiral was a captain."

"When your father started commanding the USS Enterprise back in '86," Gibbs nodded. "You were living at Alameda then. Did Porter have contact with your father socially?"

McGee shrugged again then nodded. His father wasn't one who socialized the way other people did where they lived. He was a flag officer early in his career and spent most of his time on-duty in one form or another. He didn't have much time for friends and socializing away from official circles. Whatever friendly contact he had with others was often done far from his family. However, Porter was one of a few other officers who did come to the McGee house regularly.

"They were friends, I guess," McGee answered.

"You guess?" Gibbs questioned. "McGee, they worked together and knew each other for nearly 30 years."

"Knowing my father and being someone he considered a friend were two very different categories," McGee explained with discomfort. "He, my father, was not someone who was easy to like—you know that, you met him. But liking him was the easy part. Having him like you back enough to be considered a friend? That was not something easily done. Not a lot of people were ever granted that indulgence. He was closest with his classmates from the Naval Academy and a few of his superiors. Once he was the highest ranking officer he knew, he was even more selective about who he spoke to on a personal level."

McGee offered that bit of information with a certain sour bite. Even he, the man's only son, was shut out and kept at an arm's length (or further) for many years. His father had accused him of becoming isolated once he attended MIT, but McGee's introversion was nothing compared to the fortress and distance the Admiral constructed around himself where personal relationships were concerned.

"So if your father had limited contact with Porter while you were growing up, then that means you did as well," Gibbs surmised. "Then explain to me what's your issue with Porter. When did it start?"

"I don't have anything to do with…," McGee began. "I just never liked the guy from the moment I met him."

"You've never met anyone you disliked instantly for no reason," Gibbs said. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing," McGee shook his head insistently.

"McGee, so help me if you if you are holding anything back, I will…," Gibbs cut him off curtly.

"Boss, I just don't like him," he shook his head adamantly. "I never have. I never speak to him willingly. I only do so when I have no other choice."

"Yet you flew to the carrier to have dinner with him," Gibbs said.

"Only as a reason to get to the ship and send that hard drive back to DC," McGee insisted. "I didn't want anyone at the camp knowing I had swapped them. I didn't trust the Simocorp contingent at the base. I wanted to get the evidence as far from the camp as possible. The offer to go to the carrier was the only way to do that."

"Does he know you don't like him?" Gibbs asked. McGee blanched slightly prompting Gibbs to cock his head to the side slightly as he read the answer on the agents face. "Does he know your reason?"

McGee blinked. He had a vague recollection of Gibbs asking him about the Tiger Cruise when he was in the hospital months earlier. Even in his drug induced haze, bringing up the the question seemed odd. McGee only had spotty recollections of that weekend. The part he remembered best he wished he could forget, but no amount of wishing seemed to make that possible.

"I doubt it," McGee replied. "I'm sure he doesn't think he did anything wrong or that would make me…"

"Make you what?" Gibbs prompted. "Hate the guy?"

He asked the question in a disbelieving fashion. McGee wasn't one for hate. Dislike he could manage. Even despise if the person was vile enough, but hate was too dark for the polite and scholarly agent to stomach. He was more apt to see the worst parts of a person and wonder what had twisted the person to be that way then feel some sorrow or pity for the person than to let hate manifest.

Except this time.

The answer he gave Gibbs was precise, quick and cold.

"Yes," McGee nodded.

He felt a nervous tremor roll through his body as his heart began to pound. It made his head swim as he tried to focus on the event in question.

"He's the reason my father and I…," McGee began then shook his head. "The Admiral had high standards and expectations of everyone he knew—his family included. He didn't allow laziness, sloppiness or mistakes. And above all, at all times without any exceptions, he demanded honesty. The worst sin you could commit in his mind was to lie. It was never tolerated. Ever."

McGee looked down at the table not seeing it as his vision was locked on some moment far in the past. It was the utter disappointment in the man's eyes that McGee had never forgotten. For all the times he had disappointed or displeased his father (and in his recollection there were plenty of those) none ever compared to the moment that McGee learned what fear and hate truly felt like—and both stemmed from the same moment and the same incident.

"What did you lie about?" Gibbs asked.

Fire burned in McGee's normally placid green gaze as his eyes shot up to meet Gibbs' expression. The agent's jaw clenched and his tone was acidic as he responded.

"Nothing," McGee said. "I never lied to him. Porter said I did—convinced my father that I was lying, but I didn't. I tried to explain but…"

"But what?" Gibbs asked as McGee fell silent.

"I was having an asthma attack," he said indignantly. "It started at the end of the cruise as Carter tried to explain to Porter what was happening. Before my father got there, Porter accused me of trying to make myself sick for sympathy. I would never do that. It just started because… A lot happened in those last few minutes we were on the ship. When the attack started, I didn't have my inhaler. I guess I dropped when Carter and I were running on deck. We were running and I tripped. Porter was there after Carter helped me up. Carter was all wound up about it, and Porter he… There was a party going on, someone was retiring and leaving the ship for the last time so Porter didn't want us disrupting it. I couldn't breath and wanted my father, but Porter wouldn't let me go to him because he was giving a speech that the party. So Porter took us off the ship. Carter started telling tell him what happened. He said a lot of things. I wasn't really listening. I just wanted to go home."

Gibbs nodded, not interrupting the story now that it was unfolding. He noted that the events inside the ship had been edited out of this version; however, there was a chance that between the asthma attack and whatever treatment McGee received from the questionable Dr. Reaves in the days afterward, he did not have much more he could say… yet.

"I don't know how long we were with Porter," McGee shook his head. "He was lecturing Carter about telling stories and causing trouble when my father arrived. Porter said something to my father. I couldn't hear what he said, but when they finished my father… He…"

McGee shuddered slightly as he recalled the scolding, the bitter disappointment on the man's face and the total lack of concern for his wellbeing in that moment. He was told not to speak and not to even look at his father as the man didn't want to see him.

"What did your father do?" Gibbs asked as he saw pain flare in his agent's eyes, but not the kind one would associate with a physical ailment. This was more of an ache from a sour and troubling memory.

"He said if I wanted to be a liar like Carter, then I needed to find another family to raise me," McGee replied. "He said Porter had told him what Carter and I had been doing. I'm not sure what Porter told him, just that he said something to my father and claimed we were lying about something. Boss, my father had never looked at me before the way he did that day. He was livid. He said he hadn't raised a liar and that he was disappointed and disgusted in my behavior. He said he didn't want to lay eyes on me or hear a single sound from me so when we got home, he sent me to my room. I buried my face in my pillow to muffle the sound of my wheezing to keep from making him angrier. I'm sure that doesn't sound like anything too awful now, but back then… Boss, he meant it. He was so angry with me, so disappointed. Things weren't always great before the cruise, but after that… everything between us changed. I just remember when the cruise ended, I really needed to be with my father but instead I got shunned and told I wasn't good enough to be his son. He left for a three month float to Okinawa early the next morning. I didn't see or talk to him again until he returned that next January. Boss, he was so mad at me that he wouldn't even write me a letter while he was gone. I wrote him a letter and he had it sent back unopened. He called my mother when they put into a port, but he refused to speak to me."

Gibbs said nothing but felt the muscles in his jaw clench. McGee's relationship with his father was, historically, a mess—an avoidable and pointless one in Gibbs' opinion. Kids screwed up. They talked back, they got in trouble; they did what you told them not to do. As a parent, you were supposed to love them anyway—get mad, yes, but never shun them, never make them believe you stopped loving them. Granted, he was in no position to judge Admiral McGee's feelings for his family, but Gibbs could certain judge the man's actions. The man had, without a doubt, failed completely as a father on more than one occasion, yet the man's son had given him a second chance more than once. Still, decades later, the damage from one night was still evident.

"What were you running from?" Gibbs said, drawing the discussion back to the point that had interested him initially. "You said when you were on the ship that you were running and then tripped. What were you running from?"

McGee narrowed his eyes and looked down at the table as he searched his cloudy memory of that weekend. He recalled being in the overhead area near the laundry room. He recalled Carter grabbing his arm and yanking him back to their entry point. That hardly seemed worth running from; what McGee recalled mostly was laughing about it. The running part was less funny—or rather, what happened as he was running. He remembered tripping with extreme and queasy clarity, but how he and Carter got to the flight deck and why they were running so close to the fantail was a detail lost to him.

"Just playing around, I guess," he shrugged as he swallowed back the sour taste in his mouth. "Nothing sticks out in my mind. I mostly remember I wanted my inhaler—I needed it after… I tripped. Carter was freaking out—my asthma always did that to him; he used to be afraid I'd die from it. He had a grandfather who was a heavy smoker and died from some lung ailment. Carter was in the room when the man collapsed and died so he had a phobia about people breathing funny. Anyway, I knew I needed my inhaler or Carter would panic; although, that doesn't make sense because…"

He paused as he found something inconsistent in his tale. Like so many of the other details, it was hardly worth mentioning, but in the midst of the recollection, it seemed odd. McGee looked up to see Gibbs patiently waiting with an eager and encouraging expression.

"Whenever we were playing and were not at my house, Carter always carried a spare inhaler for me," McGee recalled. "I always keep one that was nearly empty and let him hold onto it. I told him it was in case I needed it, but I usually just did it because it made him feel better to have it—like he could use to save me if I had an attack. It was his security blanket, I guess. Which is why it seems funny that he didn't give me the spare on the cruise. He always carried it—always. In fact, even today, as a joke, he sometimes brings me an empty actuator and mouthpiece whenever we have dinner to catch up. It's weird that day on deck that he didn't just take out the one in his pocket."

"Was he scared of something more than your asthma?" Gibbs wondered and got his answer from the sudden and appalling paleness that washed over McGee's face. "Was it what he saw in the laundry room?"

McGee shook his head and answered in quiet voice.

"No, it was probably because he nearly killed me," McGee admitted.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	34. Chapter 34

**_Notes:_** _So I lost all the new chapters in a computer crash. They cannot be recovered. So, I am going to wing it and rewrite the last chapters of this story again—and I don't remember my original twists and turns so it's going someplace I did not initially plan. Keep your fingers crossed that I don't dump any important plot lines. I'll be posting updates as I complete them. They'll be a bit of time between them as I need to get my latest novel finished (it also partially perished in the disastrous hard drive crash of 2015) so that will take priority. Just didn't want you all to be left hanging for even longer without even a small update… Hang in there with me. I will not leave you without an ending. Promise. Thanks for sticking around!_

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Conference Room_**

Gibbs blinked as he waited for more details or an explanation for how his agent had nearly been done in by a childhood friend on an aircraft carrier. How a detail like that had never made it into the discussion previously would have been suspicious of the storyteller had been anyone other than McGee. From his expression (a combination of bashfulness and nausea), the younger agent was feeling guilt as much as fear from the memory.

"Details, McGee," Gibbs commanded.

McGee swallowed and turned a sickly shade of pale that would have had Ducky likely checking his pulse and checking his pupils, but Gibbs knew better. He'd seen this look from his agent before and it never was caused by a physical ailment. This was how he reacted to boats and heights. McGee wasn't sick. He was afraid, or (more precisely) he was recalling something that caused him grave fear.

"Tell me," Gibbs said in a warmer and softer tone that got his agent's voice working again.

"Carter and I were out by the fantail," McGee recalled in a shaky voice. "We didn't realize where we were exactly. We weren't paying attention, I guess. We were running and no one was watching us. Everyone was… there was something going on at the other end of the deck. It was a ceremony of some kind a hundred yards away. Anyway, it was loud out there. I mean, it's always loud on deck and no one can hear you, you know?"

McGee looked up into the flat and unyielding glare of his team leader.

"Of course, you know that, Boss," McGee shrugged as he nodded. "Anyway, we were running and then I… I tripped. I fell, and there was… nothing."

"Nothing?" Gibbs repeated as the horrific truth washed over McGee's sickly green complexion.

Gibbs gaped at the possibility of children unsupervised running wild on an aircraft carrier. The possibilities for mischief and danger were countless. Then again, he reminded himself, it was the 1980's and children were not surveilled then the way they were now and security during a Tiger Cruise was never precisely topnotch at that time. The world was more trusting 30 years earlier… and more ignorant.

"As I fell, Carter grabbed my sweatshirt," McGee said as he swallowed thickly as he began wringing his hands. "I'm not sure what happened next. I went over the edge. I somehow managed to grab onto something; I don't even know what. I looked down saw the water way far down with my shoes just dangling over nothing. My hands were slipping, but the next thing I knew I was back on the deck. Porter had my arm and he was yelling at us… Carter more than me. He blamed Carter, I guess. I wasn't really listening at that point. I was… I felt pretty sick."

Heights and ships, Gibbs nodded with a deep realization.

His agent had a deathly fear of both. For years, the phobias had been points of speculation (and torture) from Tony toward the younger agent. Now, hearing the tale of near-death during childhood due to a combination of both, the fear made sense and seemed a lot less irrational than McGee previously claimed. While that was interesting (and understandable), it did not get at the more relevant question of Porter and a dead man who ended up in San Francisco Bay after that cruise.

The boys were running from something, Gibbs decided. Children might run amok when unsupervised, but no child with any familiarity with Navy life or any experience of spending any time on the deck of an aircraft carrier (particularly not at rule-following and clever child as McGee had been) would sprint blindly so close to the edge near the fantail and flirt with the chance for a fatal hundred feet above the mighty and deadly propellers without good reason. Escape, fleeing from something, seemed like the most likely candidate.

"Why were you running?" Gibbs asked quietly.

McGee shrugged and shook his head. Gibbs sighed and leaned closer. He placed his hand on his agent's shoulder.

"Tim, tell me why," he coaxed. "You weren't playing a game. You were running from something. Think back. You remember. First, Carter had just pulled you out of an overhead conduit. He was rattled. You thought there was paint coming through the vent but then Carter said it was blood. You believed him. When you both got back on the ground from the vent, what did Carter say to you?"

"Nothing at first," McGee recalled as he stared distantly at the wall with a flat expression on his sickly pale face. "He just shoved me toward the door. I hit the knee knocker and fell. It hurt. I gashed my knee pretty good. It hurt to walk; that's why I tripped on deck. My knee hurt still. It was bleeding. It wasn't anything Carter did. I know Porter accused me of lying and covering for him, but I know Carter would never have hurt me. He was my friend. He always looked out for me. I helped him with school, and he had my back outside of class."

Gibbs watched his agent struggling to both remember and forget at the same time. His desire to exonerate his friend was taking up his words, but what interested Gibbs more was the part of his mind that was slammed shut doors on what prompted the whole episode. He interrogated Ziva once to recall trauma she tried to bury. With her, it was a matter of building trust. McGee didn't need that. He trusted Gibbs. The memory was knotted and walled up with trauma and nearly three decades of denial. With someone like Tony, he could push, get all the brain cells firing to dig up the information. McGee's head was different. Force would not work. It needed to be a step by step process—like the formulaic way the younger agent tried to explain how to use a cellphone without buttons.

"So, you're inside the corridor and you hit your knee, then what?" Gibbs prodded carefully. "What did your friend do then?"

"He yanked me to my feet and…," McGee paused then locked eyes with Gibbs. "He got in my face and whispered run."

"Run?" Gibbs asked. "Why?"

It made sense that would be why McGee would do something so foolish as sprint onto the deck without any concern or caution. His friend was older, bigger, and apparently protective—traits no doubt that later made the man a success as a SEAL. McGee was the younger of the two, and no doubt comfortable in the sidekick, follower role—more apt to step up when an intellectual crisis was at hand (not unlike his typical routine when paired with DiNozzo). So, if his alpha friend said run, 8-year-old McGee would do so. The question was: Why would the order to run come in the first place? Gibbs watched McGee's expression scrunch in concentration as he began to shake his head slowly.

"I don't know for certain," he said softly. "Boss, I don't remember. Honest. I've never been able to recall most of that day clearly. After falling and then how mad the Admiral was when we went home is pretty much all that I can clearly recall of that entire weekend. I don't remember getting on the boat. I don't even remember flying with the Admiral to San Diego to take the cruise, which is pretty surprising since it was the only time I ever flew anywhere with my father. Doing anything with him would have been a big deal, except I don't remember it. Even back then, just after the cruise, I couldn't remember it. The Admiral was just so mad at me, I guess I blocked nearly all of it out."

The admiral, Gibbs sighed. So many of his agent's little quirks could be drawn back to that man. While McGee focused on the man's anger and disappointment, Gibbs knew the possibility of another angle existed—one McGee likely never suspected as it was a role he knew nothing about: that of a parent. Whether it was accurate or not, Gibbs felt compelled to offer it as some form of solace.

"Maybe your father wasn't mad,"," Gibbs suggested, hoping he was not giving the Admiral too much credit that nearly losing his son would have jarred the man's standoffish nature into showing some emotion, even if it was fear posing as anger. "Regardless of what he said or what you thought, he was a father that day as well as an officer. McGee, trust me. Something like that, a child nearly falling to his death, happens to your child and any father would be scared. He wouldn't take that lightly."

McGee scoffed lightly and offered a doubtful expression.

"No, I don't suppose he would have," McGee shook his head briskly. "The thing is, the Admiral never knew about what happened to me. That's part of the secret, Boss. We weren't supposed to tell. Not me, not Carter. Porter didn't tell; he said he would get thrown out of the Navy because of what we did. He said my father would lose his commission and Carter's parents would both lose theirs. He was supposed to keep an eye on us and we broke the rules and disappeared so our screw up was going to hurt a lot of people—that's what he said, anyway. So he promised that as long as we never said anything, he wouldn't either. At least… that's what I think I remember. Sometimes, there's other things that come to me about what he said, but then they fade. I really try never to think about it, which is why I try to avoid any contact with Porter."

McGee started fidgeting in his chair. Gibbs stepped back to give him some space and watched him. If he had been a suspect, this would be the moment he would break. Just the right pressure at the precise moment and everything withheld would spill out.

Except McGee was not a suspect. Gibbs regarded him curiously and caught the man's sheepish and guilty gaze.

"Boss, after I got shot, I forgot some stuff—not just about the shooting," he admitted. "There are things…. other things, stuff about my father, and maybe some more stuff, that I don't remember at all. I try and sometimes I think I've nearly got them and then they just slip back into wherever they go that I can't find them. I've talked to Dr. Cranston about it. She has a lot of theories but no answers. She said maybe I'll remember them someday, like the way I remembered about the hard drive the other day, but she can't say with any certainty. What it comes down to is this, I can't trust anything I think I remember, especially if it involves my father. That's hard for me to accept, but that may simply be how it is for me from now on. I'm sorry I can't tell you more and that I can't say with any confidence what I did tell you is what actually happened. If you need to know about that weekend, you can ask Carter. He'll remember. I'm certain."

As Gibbs watched McGee carefully regaining his composure following his disclosure, his gut was telling him that McGee was speaking truthfully—at least as truthfully as he was able. What Gibbs took for reluctance in the hospital to discuss the cruise was apparently quite the opposite. As a child, his agent had experienced something traumatic (which likely was the strongest memory of the cruise) so whatever else his young mind had seen or known at the time, it was lost to the fear and anxiety of nearly plunging 150 feet to his death over the side of the ship. Still, while under the influence of the heavy narcotics, McGee had been able to recall something that did not involve a precarious dangling over the edge. At that moment in the hospital, perhaps due to the massive amounts of painkillers in his system, McGee had able to push past whatever block existed in his conscious memory, which was all the evidence Gibbs need to know the memory loss wasn't related to the shooting. Something else, likely due to the help of someone Gibbs now suspected, had caused McGee to lock away most memories of that cruise. Gibbs' gut was telling him there was a reason to dig more and to start with the person who had dealt with McGee by giving him treatment immediately following the cruise.

"McGee, does the name Pamela Reaves mean anything to you?" Gibbs asked.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Vance's Office_**

The director sat rigidly in his chair as he scowled at the phone clasped tightly in his hand. He cast his eyes on the black and white photo of Muhammad Ali over Sonny Liston. He envied the champ his ability to snarl at and taunt his opponent. Vance didn't have that leeway. He had to keep calm—for now. He had to keep his professional edge and continually remind himself that he was a politician and a leader. He also allowed himself the luxury of daydreaming about giving his caller a right upper cut.

"What do you mean no?" Parsons asked in response to Vance's answer to his request.

"I have this sort of trouble with my kids frequently," the director said flatly. "They have trouble with that word, too. I thought it was just their generation. Mr. Parsons, I'm convinced you have heard that word before and know the full range of its meaning. If you do not, I am willing to teach it to you right now."

"Director, I understand why my earlier request was denied," Parsons said in a controlled fashion. "Your agent was still somewhat under a doctor's care. However, all reports I have now tell me that he is fully recovered."

"That's the thing about reports that aren't from the most knowledgeable sources," Vance replied. "They lack credibility and reliability sometimes."

Parsons sighed. He questioned congressmen, senators, presidential appointees even, yet no one—not even the self-interested, insanely rich and over-indulged trust fund babies who strayed into his work occasionally—gave him the trouble and aggravation that the small and relatively unknown law enforcement agency that policed the Navy and the Marine Corps gave him. NCIS, he said to himself weekly, was a certified pain in the ass and rightfully a four-letter word.

"I can get a court order," the special prosecutor said with a mild threat to his tone.

"No, you can't," Vance countered confidently. "See, to do that, you would need to put in writing everything you suspect and the men you suspect of doing those things, which you aren't ready to bring into the sunlight. You're still playing this close to the vest so that tells me you're still putting this case together in the shadows. That means the only other course you have is to seek a secret subpoena, and I don't think this request or investigation falls under the guises of the FISA court, do you?"

Parsons ground his teeth as he realized the director had him—for now. Of course, this call was just a formality. It was the first act in the drama they were going to play out while Gibbs' team worked on some aspect of their investigation, jealously and zealously holding it close to the vest. In the past, Parsons would have suspected a cover up going on, but not now. He understood Gibbs (somewhat) and trusted him (as much as a man like Parsons trusted anyone). The team obviously had something it was looking into and felt was promising. Parsons suspected it was something that came from McGee's memory, some tidbit of knowledge that had been missing previously but was in their reach. Whatever that nugget of information was, it might open the many locked doors they kept finding as they proceeded with this investigation.

Or so Parsons hoped.

There was a chance that Vance wasn't simply stalling and buying his team time to get information. There was a chance that the agent in question wasn't ready for a full debriefing and questioning by Parsons. Gibbs protected his team in ways both large and small—ways that many might not recognize as protection. He had a way of building a perimeter around them and keeping outside forces at bay whenever he worried they were vulnerable. The wall he had constructed around McGee in the last few months was both impressive and formidable for both its resilience and stealth; Parsons suspected even McGee did not realize it was in place, which again raised the issue of how necessary the protection was.

"How is Agent McGee doing?" Parsons asked. "That's not for a report. That's me asking."

"Recovery of this nature takes time," Vance replied cagily. "He's making steady progress."

Parsons huffed, feeling no better informed than he was when the conversation started. He could get case details from Tony when the man checked in periodically. He could do the same if he called Gibbs and asked him for a general briefing, but in all his contact with them there was always on thing noticeable absent from the discussion: McGee. There was no mention of his well-being or how he was fairing during his recovery. At first, Parsons suspected that was simply a product of the team being focused on digging up information about the cold case in San Francisco or the security breach in Afghanistan. Now, he was starting to genuinely worry about the agent who was at the epicenter of these cases.

"While I firmly believe Agent DiNozzo is a threat to constitutional rights, I have a grudging respect for all of Gibbs' team," he admitted. "Of the agents he supervises, McGee is the one I almost liked enough to tolerate. That I also think he is the one most dangerous to our national security is completely independent of my personal opinion of him."

Vance smirked at that. It was an opinion he held himself. Gibbs was a force onto himself where questions of security were concerned. He'd take a dozen bullets before he ever cracked under pressure. DiNozzo could drive a suicide bomber to detonate his payload long before reaching his target by his incessant chatter about all things cinema and his ability to tap dance around proper procedure. McGee, however, was always point of concern.

Certainly he was trustworthy and had a lot more backbone than most people might ever suspect, but it was the information and skill locked away in his mind which made him vulnerable. Men with McGee's knowledge and ability to navigate the nation's cyber security and electronic records were rarely allowed in field positions; it placed them too close to action which could terminate them. It also left them vulnerable to being scooped up and spirited away where pressure and torture could be applied to exploit all those marvelous details held behind his eyes.

Vance rarely worried about that happening. McGee had worked hard and become a savvy agent who could handle himself in the field and protect himself in most situations. He also had a solid team, the best in the agency (and perhaps in Federal law enforcement in Vance's opinion) backing him up. Still, the possibility of something going awry brought Vance back to information provided by Tony and Bishop after their last meeting with the special prosecutor.

"Is it still your opinion that Agent McGee was specifically targeted in Afghanistan?" he asked.

"It is," Parsons replied. "I'm just not completely spun up on the why part. Yet."

"Do you believe he is still a target?" Vance asked.

"That I don't know," Parsons said. "Before you start questioning if he needs a protection detail, I should explain to you that while I am certain he was targeted at Foxtrot Camp, I cannot say if the assailants who actually did shoot him were part of that targeting. There are still a few too many holes in this investigation for my liking. I know Agent McGee was in danger when he was overseas. I can't say whether that is true when he is in his apartment or traveling to work. That's why I need to talk to him."

Vance shook his head. Whether that last offering was accurate, he could not say; however, his mind wasn't buying it. Certainly Parsons wanted to get at the truth and he wanted NCIS's help to do that. Being on the same side of an investigation with him was slightly comforting, but that didn't make Vance comfortable. Protecting his agency (and his agent) remained at the top of his priorities.

"When he is ready to be questioned by you, Special Agent Gibbs will notify you," Vance said. "Until then, consider Agent McGee in protective custody: mine."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Gibbs descended the stairs at a clipped pace. He made his way to his desk and called to Tony with orders involving the disgraced therapist who treated McGee as a child following the Tiger Cruise then abruptly left the Navy less than a year later.

"Where are you on interviewing Pamela Reaves?" Gibbs asked.

Tony blinked then blanched. He had dropped that line of inquiry when the good/former doctor had given him the silent treatment following weeks of attempting to contact her. He had started to think the only way to talk to her was to hop a flight to Jacksonville and stakeout her house and place of work, except he couldn't do that without being ordered—and thus far, Gibbs hadn't made that a command.

"Well, nowhere," Tony replied. "Boss, she doesn't want to return my calls."

"I don't care if you need to bribe her or threaten her or whatever you have to do," Gibbs said. "We need to know what she knows."

"Well, she spent a couple decades self-medicating and serving time," Tony offered. "I think she may know less now than we think."

Gibbs looked up from his desk to eye his agent firmly. Tony's shoulders drooped as the smile and joking posture left him. He sighed and walked to Gibbs' area.

"Boss, I'm saying she was pretty hardcore with the illicit substances," Tony explained. "From what I've learned of her past, after she left the Navy if she wasn't high she was drunk. That does tend to make the memory a bit like Swiss cheese. I'm not certain she can tell us much, and whatever she does tell us might not be reliable."

"Won't know what that is until we ask," Gibbs said.

"What do you think she knows?" Tony wondered as he dropped his voice slightly.

He looked over his shoulder, noting with interest and a bit of worry that McGee had not returned from the conference room with the Boss.

"What did he tell you?" Tony asked quietly with concern. "She messed with his head when she treated him as a kid, didn't she?"

Gibbs looked with restrained pride at his senior agent. Not a solid clue in his grasp and he pieced together the big wildcard hand in the deck. Gibbs merely raised his eyebrows in agreement. Beyond figuring out why pieces of the puzzle were missing, Gibbs also heard an edge of anger in Tony's voice. His team was his family. Regardless of when the wrong occurred, the protector in Tony wanted to settle a score.

"Where is McGee?" Tony asked.

He suspected his partner's absence must mean he had been sent back to the cyber basement that Gibbs had punished him again. Gibbs did not get a chance to answer before Tony plowed forward in support of his teammate.

"Boss, you gotta admit that withstanding your interrogation shows a lot of pluck and mental fortitude—that or okay, maybe a whole lot of crazy, but I'm just not getting that coo-coo vibe from him," Tony persisted. "Trust me, I know when he's McSquirrely and that's not what's going on here. So, I'm thinking that if McGee can resist buckling under your…"

"I didn't interrogate him," Gibbs cut him off sternly. "I asked him questions. He gave me all the answers he has available."

"And he told you Reaves knows more than he does?" Tony questioned.

"No," Gibbs shook his head. "He told me he's never heard of her."

Tony cocked his head to the side as his expression radiated disbelief.

"He doesn't remember seeing a shrink when he was a kid?" Tony shook his head. "Then he lied to you or he's got more memory loss than just about his father. Boss, McGee told me once years ago when we were investigating that Navy intel officers whose wife was a mole that he saw a therapist when he was a kid. He never said why. He just said it was personal and none of my business, but he definitely remembered doing it."

Gibbs kept his face unreadable. McGee told Gibbs that he did recall receiving counseling; he just didn't recall the person he saw for that. Or rather he didn't recall it being anyone named Reaves. Whether Reaves was alone during her sessions with McGee or if she did something to alter his memory of the meetings, Gibbs did not know. Her lack of official record keeping was suspect and unhelpful. However, it suddenly occurred to Gibbs that she was not the only person who might know something about what occurred in those sessions.

"Get a warrant for Reaves," Gibbs said abruptly.

"Now?" Tony asked as he lifted his phone.

"Does later fit into your schedule better?" Gibbs asked tersely. "Yes, now."

"Grounds?" Tony wondered.

"Material witness in a 1987 homicide on a Navy vessel," Gibbs replied. "She tampered with a witness. Ellie, get me someone at the Pentagon who can find Commander Carter Scott, last known assignment was attachment to SEAL team 4."

Bishop looked wide-eyed at Tony who shrugged then nodded.

"He told you something?" Tony wondered. "What did he remember this time?"

"That it's a long way down from the deck of an aircraft carrier," Gibbs quipped as he lifted his phone and began dialing.

He then turned a sharp gaze on his agents that jump started them into immediate action. Before his call was answered, he spied Parsons descending the stairs with a frustrated look. Gibbs dropped his phone and walked toward the elevator to meet the man. They shared a knowing look and stepped into the car at the same time, letting the doors close before either spoke.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _ELEVATOR_**

"I just got my restraining order from your director," Parsons huffed. "You are the ones who brought me into this. I can't do my job if you won't let me talk to the guy who is at the center of all of this."

"The guy at the center is your problem not my agent," Gibbs said as he flipped the switch that shutdown the car. "Porter and anyone connected to the drug ring is your focus. McGee is not part of that."

"He was more than collateral damage," Parsons asserted.

"Your gut telling you that?" Gibbs asked as he narrowed his eyes at the man.

"My instincts and my evidence," Parsons asserted. "There is no connection between Afghanistan and your 30 year old cold case. Well, no important connection. Your agent may know something about a murder; he may not. What your team did was stumble across an old drug ring by sheer accident. You've been circling around this ring for years and never knew it—no one did. No one is going to fault any of you for never finding these shards of clues scattered across decades of history."

Gibbs merely jerked his chin to encourage the man to keep speaking. While most of his team was still frosty when it came to trusting Parsons, he knew the man differently now. Close calls and close quarters that required them to watch each other's backs build a bridge to trust and it was solid. Parsons might be politically motivated and ambitious, but he was, in the end, someone who believed in justice and doing the right thing.

"Agent McGee caught the biggest clues when he was at the base in Helmand Province," Parsons explained. "It got lost in your evidence maze, but now you know there was a ring operating out of that base and a few others. We're tracking the financials and can draw it back decades to a DEA Agent now retired, a Marine Colonel now deceased, and a naval officer still currently active. The two original members have a spider web of underlings, most of whom have no idea what role they play precisely. I want to roll up this whole mess, but to do that I need to see every piece of the puzzle. Let me talk to McGee."

"No," Gibbs shook his head. "Not yet."

"I need to ask him…," Parsons began.

"You want to ask him about the laptop he's dissecting for the FBI and the DEA," Gibbs argued. "I know what you're doing. No one is sharing with you what he's found yet because no one has analyzed it that far. You want to know what's in it before the other agencies so they don't stumble into your investigation and tip someone off inadvertently."

The prosecutor snorted then jammed his hands into his pockets and looked toward the floor. When he did finally look up, it was with a sheepish expression.

"My way is best," he half-admitted.

"Agreed," Gibbs nodded. "But your way isn't going to get you what McGee has found out so far. He's not going to tell you before he tells me or Vance. He doesn't trust you. He doesn't even like you."

That soured the man's expression even further but he shrugged his acceptance.

"I'll see that you get the information before anyone else," Gibbs promised. "But first, you're going to find someone for me."

"Who?" Parsons asked. "You know where all main the players are—most of them are in D.C. You've got financial surveillance on them."

"Outside source," Gibbs replied. "I can't call his former employer or any of my contacts looking for him. It would raise too many questions since I'm supposed to think he's dead."

"You want me to find a dead man?" Parsons shook his head. "From anyone else, I would say that sounded crazy. Okay, I'll play along. Who?"

"CIA operative allegedly neutralized overseas, probably Israel," Gibbs replied. "He has a lot of aliases and a lot of hidden bank accounts, but he only has one eye so it makes him a bit easier to find."

He then turned on the elevator, letting it resume its descent when he saw agreement in Parson's expression.

"What name do I start with?" Parson sighed.

"Trent Kort," Gibbs replied.

He left Parsons in the lobby and remained in the elevator for a return trip to the squad room. When he arrived, he found very little changed. Bishop was cradling a phone on her shoulder, apparently still on hold from the rolling of her eyes. Tony was rattling away on his keyboard writing up his request for a warrant. Gibbs returned to his desk and checked his phone messages. As he did, he sensed his senior agent approach the desk.

"So what did you and the leader of the Rat Squad talk about?" Tony asked in a low tone.

"Porter," Gibbs said gruffly.

"Right," Tony winced and did his best not to make a white whale reference or slip and call Gibbs Captain Ahab.

While wrestling to keep his tongue under control, Tony cast his eyes again at the empty desk beside his. His hand was on his phone when he felt compelled to ask another question.

"McGee didn't come downstairs with you," he noted. "Does that mean you sent him back to the cyber basement?"

He felt for his partner and the yo-yo/rollercoaster ride going on in his professional life lately. He was denied re-instatement, he was banished to the nether regions of the geek universe, he was allowed upstairs, he was interrogated by his boss, and then he disappeared. No one could take all that and not feel a little sick. Just watching it made Tony a bit queasy with sympathy anxiety.

"He's in the lab with Abby," Gibbs replied. "I need him to dig more out of that laptop he copied during his undercover op for JTTF. The techs helping him in the cyber unit aren't helping enough. Maybe she can do what they can't."

"Yeah," Tony remarked. "I'll bet Abby can do things for him that they can't."

He chuckled until he felt Gibbs' heavy stare upon him.

"Uh, that probably didn't sound right," Tony grimaced. "Boss, there's something you should probably know. This is not me tattling on him. This is for his own good. See, McGee's been… Well, first off, he's still bouncing back, right? So maybe you can understand why he might not have filled you in on everything."

"Such as?" Gibbs inquired sternly.

"Such as his new—and by new, I mean old but renewed—extracurricular activity," Tony smirked. "Um, see, unknowingly, you sent him down to lab to get work done, but there's a chance he's down there getting his flirt on. Boss, he's seeing Abby again—like the full body contact, no clothing, hinky stuff in the coffin kind of seeing, which is probably a good thing in this instance. I mean, if your discussion with him was a little rough then she's probably the fix he needs to get his head back in the game for work... assuming he's thinking about work at all and not just letting her stroke his keyboard, so to speak."

Gibbs merely huffed and shook his head. He turned his attention to his own phone triggering Tony's curiosity.

"Boss, did you hear what I said?" he asked. "I said you sent McGee downstairs to go play lab partner with his girlfriend without supervision. There's a complete violation of Rule 12 going on here."

"Yeah, I know," Gibbs said. "Old news. Find Reaves and go talk to her. Don't take no for an answer. I hope you didn't have plans for tonight."

"I didn't, but why are you mentioning it?" Tony wondered. "If this is about what you heard earlier, you know McGee was just joking about me and that whole STD thing, right? I was talking about a computer thing, and he got all snippy about…"

"Reaves. Warrant. Now," Gibbs ordered gruffly.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Abby's Lab_**

McGee stared listlessly at the blinking cursor in front of him. The virtual image of the pirated laptop waited patiently for him, but he stared forward unseeingly. There as noise in the lab. Major Masspec grinding on his latest feast of chemicals to dissect for some other case. Hard drives grinding through the process of sifting fingerprints. Two of Abby's lab technicians arguing about the merits of Schrödinger's Cat and Raiders of the Lost Quark. McGee barely registered any of it until there were a pair of arms resting on his shoulders.

"They turn you to a pillar of salt too?" Abby asked. "You haven't moved or said a words since you got down here 20 minutes ago."

"I was just thinking," McGee replied. "Actually, no. That's not true. I can't think of anything. I'm just spacing out."

"I noticed," she sighed. "Want to tell me why?"

"I have no idea," he shrugged as he sat up straighter. "Gibbs asked me to tell him something about a Tiger Cruise I took when I was a kid. I can't figure out why, but what is bothering me right now is that I didn't even ask Gibbs why he wanted to know about that. Except, now, I think I do know."

Abby scrunched her brow and looked at him with a puzzled expression that invited more elaboration. This was the one thing that troubled McGee about living and working with Abby. The boundaries between work discussion and home discussion were always fairly thin with her, but now he felt it more important than ever to find those lines and not cross them—if only to be certain that they had things to discuss at home so they did not fall into a rut. Of course, just discussing work all the time, regardless of location, could easily land them in the same snare. This subject, however, seemed to bridge the two worlds and McGee couldn't figure out which one should be in the lead.

"We know that when the base in Afghanistan was attacked, it was related to heroin and morphine smuggling ring," he said, watching her face grow stony at the mention of the previous spring's events. "We know the ring operated out of a marine base and used navy ship and ports for transporting the drugs. From the financials Ellie tracked from the accounts we found, this ring has been operating in one form or another for years—decades even."

"And Gibbs has Tony looking into a cold case from Alameda that involves a drug dealer," Abby nodded, keeping her voice low. "What's that got to do with a weekend trip on a boat for you?"

"What if that boat was involved?" McGee suggested. "What if I witnessed something without realizing it? Considering that I can't remember that cruise at all, maybe I did."

Abby shrugged. It seemed rather thin and in the big picture not overly important if the team had a financial trail leading to the players in the ring. From what she knew, they were simply slowly following the web of transactions to round up even more players. The laptop McGee was trying to crack still was believed to contain information about various drug routes and suppliers around the world, one of which might include the military based ring that was on the NCIS radar. One dead drug dealer from the 1980s hardly seemed important; and a single child witness could hardly be expected to hold any golden clues.

"I suppose it's possible, but what if it's more direct than that," she suggested. "Is there anyone from that cruise who is a part of any other aspect of this case?"

"Who?" McGee shrugged. "Not Carter. He was a kid. He had nothing to do with any drug running back then and I refuse to believe he has since joined in a smuggling ring. I know we have to look at all possibilities, but I just can't believe he is it."

"Okay," Abby nodded, dragged a chair closer to sit beside him and stare at the blank screen herself. "We'll put him in the unlikely column along with you. After all, you both have the same level of access and attachment to this thing. Who else does that leave us?"

McGee chewed his lip as a name popped into his head. Then another and another. They links between them were tenuous and distant at best, but they all did have a tie—two ties in fact, and one left McGee feeling sick.

"What is it?" Abby asked as she watched his eyes narrow.

Rather than answer, McGee pulled Abby's keyboard closer and began typing, leaving the pirated hard drive behind. As he did, numbers and code flew across the screen with such rapidity Abby could barely follow. When she did realize what he was querying, she began to shake her head.

"No, McGee," she said. "That's not it. You can't think that."

"I don't think that, but what if someone else does?" he replied as he focused on the screen, pulling down financial a documents and military records. "We found someone was doing a deep background check on my records and my mother's a while back. I know now that was part of the NCIS assisted investigation. Did you see who base security let in for a meeting with the director today?"

Abby shook her head and was rewarded with a photo popping up on the screen of a prosecutor she still considering practicing voodoo on for making her team leave and nearly putting Gibbs away.

"Parsons," she said in a way that sounded more like a curse.

"I think he's the one who was running those checks," McGee replied. "What if he thinks the Admiral was involved? He certainly had access and there was nearly no one would question anything he did."

"That's because other than his parenting skills, nothing he ever did was questionable," Abby replied then winced as she realized the words were out of her mouth and not just sounding in her head. She then whispered her apology. "Sorry, honey."

"No, you're right," McGee agreed without offense. "He was the very model of the modern navy's top brass. Sarah and I used to joke that he never got in trouble because you couldn't throw the book at him since he was the book. My father was not a warm man or gifted with tender social skills, but he was faithful to his uniform and loyal to his country. The only good he thought NCIS ever did was putting away people who brought drugs into his navy."

"His navy?" Abby smirked.

"He was a little egomaniacal and overly possessive of his first family, the navy," McGee shrugged not feeling hurt by that or the need to explain further. "The navy meant everything to him and anything that hurt the navy was seen as an enemy—thus the reason he didn't like NCIS a lot as he viewed them like the rat squad unless they were dealing with drugs. He might have been bombastic and thought he was smarter than everyone else in his ranks and those below, but he wasn't foolish enough to think he could run a drug ring and not get caught. Besides, someone at his level would have needed to have so many people covering for him to make that happen. He was under far too much scrutiny to pull it off, but someone took a look at his background to be certain."

Abby perused the information on the screen with McGee and stole the occasional glance at him. It impressed her that he could be relatively calm about this—particularly since it involved his father. Since starting his weekly sessions with Dr. Cranston, Abby had noted a marked decrease in mentioning the man, dropping back to the pre-death levels of hardly being mentioned at all. Whether that was wise or not, she could not say, but the negative attitude and blind worship of the man's hurtful edicts had at least ceased.

"So what do you think this means?" she asked.

"I think," McGee said, turning his eyes to the pirated laptop, "that someone with nearly his level of access and certainly his longevity of service is involved, which tells me that the other possibility I considered is now likely."

"Who is that?" Abby asked.

"Someone who spent a career riding my father's coattails and who tried to keep me out of Afghanistan and later got the specialists involved to save my life," McGee scowled. "I don't think he wanted to kill me. I think he felt guilty that I was there at all."

Abby continued to be mystified by the information and cocked her head to the side as a photo was pulled up on the screen of a flag officer staring back at them with a stern expression.

"Admiral Paul Porter?" she wondered.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** _More to come._


	35. Chapter 35

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Bethesda, Md_**

 ** _Penny's Home_**

Weak autumn light seeped through the thick glass panes of the sunroom at the back of Dr. Penelope Langston's home in a quiet corner of the city near the river on a Sunday morning. McGee sat opposite his grandmother in what he thought of as his spot, the chair in the corner of the room where she taught him to read when he was a little boy.

Unlike those days when she was all smiles, this day she fixed him with a concerned expression.

"So what's the deal, kido?" Penny asked. "I haven't had a real update from you in weeks. I let your sister pull her off-the-grid phases because I have spies around her at the university. My network doesn't rat on you, so let's hear it. What's going on and why do I need to put you in the corner here to find out?"

McGee shrugged. He wasn't sure what she meant as they spoke or emailed often. His grandmother had been away since he changed addresses, but she was well aware of his career status (limbo) and new living arrangements. They had not caught up in person, but they were hardly out of touch.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "I told you everything is fine when you called me on my birthday."

"Precisely," Penny nodded. "Fine is a pointless word that tells me nothing. I'm an inquisitive old bird, Timothy. I need more than limp adjectives. You've got a considerable vocabulary—one I have always encouraged you to use so commence with the more descriptive polysyllabics."

She rolled her hands through the air like a queen permitting a subject to speak. McGee smirked and shrugged.

"I'm _really_ fine," he offered with a slight taunt in his voice. "That's an adverb and a verb. I would actually argue that, technically, the word fine alone is fairly detailed. After all, it's an adjective, an adverb, a noun, and a verb. It's impressive as words go."

"You're too clever for your own good," Penny replied as she sipped on her tea while assessing him with sharp eyes. "Your sister claims that since you began playing house with Abby you're more secretive than ever."

"Sarah's mad I refused to run a security check on the guy who lives across the hall from her," McGee replied. "She doesn't understand that the fact he parks in their lot badly isn't probable cause to violate his right to privacy."

Penny nodded, feeling much the same way. Her hot tempered granddaughter had done little growing up since starting graduate school and a doctoral program. Her squabbles about her brother were an obvious ploy to put pressure on him for her own agenda. Penny let that slide. They would work it out between them eventually.

"Your mother is tying herself in knots because she thinks your rushing too many changes," Penny offered next. "I know she worries a lot—mother's prerogative. What I want to know is: What is going on in that head of yours?"

She asked in in such a way that he knew she was not being accusatory. She was legitimately curious what was occupying is thoughts of late. He merely shrugged again.

His family's collective worries were not news to him. Sarah was making extreme efforts to get to know Abby. McGee saw those for what they were: guilt. His sister was still trying to make up for being an unconscionable brat toward Abby over the summer. Whether her friendship with Abby would last beyond her self-imposed period of penance was anyone's guess.

His mother was another story. She withheld her direct opinions about McGee moving in with Abby, but there was evidence just below the surface of worry. He knew she was also bothered by his return to work. She hinted often that there were an infinite number of jobs in the private sector that could employ his education and skills. Each refusal she received her from her son only stiffened her resolve and resulted in her questioning whether he should ease back on his relationship with Abby. He knew his mother's resistance had nothing to do with Abby as a person but more as a force in McGee's life. Carol McGee seemed to think that if her son had a bit more distance from Abby, he would consider leaving behind his career as a federal agent.

And she was right to some extent. Abby was one of the strongest supports he had for returning to NCIS. She was the one who finally helped him find his courage to face the psychological aftermath of his injuries. Where others were trying hard to make life easier for him and help him pretend everything was fine, Abby was the one who gave him the ultimatum that kick started him into taking necessary action.

"What's going on is that I'm trying to figure out what I do next," McGee replied. "I know you all are worried about me, but for the first time in months you really don't need to do that. Honestly, I'm doing well—very well. I can sleep again. I'm not breaking into a cold sweat if someone slams a door or if a car backfires. No more nightmares about the Admiral scolding me. I've remembered things that I forgot. All this adds up to things being good for me."

Penny nodded, taking in his words and appearance. He did look better than when she last saw him more than a month earlier. The dark circles were gone from under his eyes and the haunted and hollow expressions were missing as well. She saw him smile—genuinely—not the fake grin he plastered on his face over the summer when he wanted to make other people think he was doing well.

"So what are the things you are considering next?" she asked. "Before you wonder, that is not me getting on your mother's bandwagon about your job. I know how much you loved being an NCIS agent. If that's what you still want to do, I'm not going to guilt you out of doing it."

McGee sighed. His first opportunity to reapply for field status was approaching swiftly; however, after discussing his options with Cranston, he was considering not submitting his application. As Vance told him, most agents in his situation did not apply until they were back in working status for six months. That hurdle was still two months away.

"I'm thinking status quo is what's best for now," McGee said. "I'm medically permitted to be on restricted duty for a year before the review committee takes up my status for their own review. Regulations permit me to reapply earlier if I want, which I did and it was rejected. Reapplication can occur six weeks after the date of rejection. That date's just passed, but I didn't apply. I'm not rushing to do it again."

Penny nodded, her eyebrows lifting slightly in surprise.

"Not what I was expecting to hear," she admitted. "What does the rest of your team say?"

"Nothing because I haven't told them," McGee replied. "I'm not specifically withholding anything. They just haven't asked. I figure Gibbs knows since they'd send him my paperwork for his review and concurrence if I had started the process. They're not pushing me. I know they want me back—they say so—but they're giving me the space and time to make that choice of when."

Penny offered him a thoughtful look that was rich with both worry and pride. The part of him that felt he needed to prove himself was strong but it seemed his rational mind, the part that wanted to do the right thing rather than what looked good, was holding its own it seemed—assuming it was only logic prompting his delay.

"Are you reconsidering not reapplying?" she asked. "It's okay if it scares you—going back to the field or even being rejected when you ask. Just make sure you're being honest with yourself for why you're taking your time."

McGee nodded. As usual, his sage grandmother could read his thoughts like her own personal language. The fear he felt going back into the field was the easier one to face. It was not unlike the first time he was handed a gun and told to leave his desk to join an investigation. The jitters were real. The job was serious and could be dangerous with life altering repercussions. What bothered him instead were the trembles he felt at the thought of a second rejection. Being a federal agent, working for NCIS, was what his heart wanted to be his whole life, and he had done it. He had done it well until his heart was nearly shredded by a 9 mm bullet the previous May. Being told he was no longer considered fit for that job remained a possibility, and he wasn't yet ready to face that.

"I'm being methodical," he told her. "I'll know when the time is right to get the answer to whether I should be a field agent again. If, for whatever reason, that time doesn't arrive before the mandatory review a year from the day I was injured, then that will be an answer for me as well. I think Gibbs and Director Vance understand that. Like I said, Tony and Ellie are patient, and Abby…"

Penny leaned forward at the mention of the forensic scientist who came up in every discussion she had with her grandson—now more than ever.

"Yes, Abby," Penny nodded. "Go on. What is she telling you?"

"She says she supports whatever I feel is best for me," McGee replied. "She's convinced I can pass all the evaluations now, but she understands that I need time still. She's not pushing me. In fact, going back to a full-time field agent scares her at bit. It's kind of funny. Mom is worried that it's Abby who is encouraging me to move too fast, and all the while the two of them sound just alike with their fears. I think it's past time that they spent some time together getting to know each other better. It'll save me the trouble of trying to explain them to each other."

His plan was to have them do just that when his birthday arrived, but his mother was unable to travel to Washington. Her friend Griffin had just received a terrible diagnosis and she felt he needed someone to be with him. McGee understood and did what he could over the phone to assure her that he fully intended to be around for a lot more birthdays and that there was no reason for her to fret over not seeing him this year. Unfortunately, reminding her that for the last seven years she did not see him on his birthday only seemed to deepen her regret. What then stoked her stiff attitude toward Abby was his attempt at assuring her he would not be alone was stating that Abby would be with him, just as she had for each of his birthdays since he was assigned to the Navy Yard.

"Your job isn't all that worries your mother," Penny said reading the look on his face. "So, do I get a domestic bliss report, or is that just worthy of the word _fine_ too? You came alone today. Should I infer anything from that?"

He looked down, his cheeks turning bashfully pink, as the smile she was so happy to see returning to his features reappeared. Whatever his mother's concerns about the apparent sudden seriousness of his relationship with Abby, they seemed unfounded. Penny knew her grandson cared deeply and truly for the forensic scientist. There were many facets in common with their personalities, but there were just as many that were 180 degrees apart. The one that concerned her the most was Abby's need for independence, which often took the form of commitment issues, which in the past clashed with her grandson's proclivity toward wanting a stable and settled existence.

"She's helping Sister Rosita asked her chaperone an outing at the zoo for some kids at the homeless shelter the church runs," McGee replied. "At home, things are good… great even. She's going home to New Orleans for Christmas this year to see her family. I'm, uh, I'm going with her."

Penny gaped and blinked. Everything she knew about Abby held that the woman lived in the moment, rarely made far-reaching personal plans and did everything she could to keep commitments about personal arrangements at an arm's length. Moving in with Penny's grandson was jaw-dropping in itself. Making future plans that involved intermingling her work life and her family for more than an hour was a seismic shift that would have rocked Penny off her heels if she had been standing.

"Concrete future plans to travel with you and have you spend time with her family?" Penny remarked. "For most people, that would be considered a serious step. For Abby, that's miraculous. Is she going to ask you to marry her?"

McGee chuckled. Penny was not the first to make that joke. Gibbs actually said it originally—in front of Abby no less—when McGee submitted his leave request for those dates. McGee had cringed inwardly, expecting Abby to grow stiff and flee the discussion, but he was wrong. She only smiled demurely and half shrugged. When Abby did not balk at the suggestion and then replied slyly that it might not be a bad idea, McGee knew things had changed. There was no more reason to fear she was terrified of commitment or that she would tire of McGee.

"Maybe it'll be a race to see who asks the question first," he revealed as he cautiously raised his eyes to meet hers. As expected, Penny blinked and stared at him. "When she didn't freak out about Gibbs's comment, I asked her why. We've been discussing her answer ever since."

"And what was her answer?" Penny wondered.

"Essentially, why not," McGee said. "It was more than that, but that's what it boils down to. We've been talking about it… a lot. I know it probably seems crazy and impetuous, but we've known each other for 12 years; we're best friends. I'll admit it was a little nerve-wracking at first talking about it, but when we put it in perspective with our lives for the last few years, it didn't seem so big and intimidating after all. I know I've thought about it before. I just didn't think she would be open or ready to consider it. You know, for once, it doesn't hurt being wrong."

Penny looked hard at him, searching his face for any hint of hesitation or worry. Finding nothing but a sincere grin, she sighed.

"Does that mean what I think it means?" she demanded. "I'm all for dragging out a good story, but you've given me enough drama for a lifetime, sweetheart. Bottom line this for me: Do I need to start looking for a dress to go to your wedding next year? And, more importantly, will you be making me a great-grandmother the year after that?"

McGee held up his hands to slow her timetable and plans.

"Uh, that's all up in the air still, but I'll say possibly on the first part and not exactly on the second," he said bashfully. "Just keep all this quiet for right now. Mom's going to think I need more therapy if she finds out from anyone but me that Abby and I are talking about anything permanent. She still hasn't adjusted to me just moving in with Abby. She doesn't understand that while us dating this time around is new, we're not new to each other."

Penny nodded then rolled her eyes. She was well aware of their relationship, its ups and downs and in and outs, over the previous decade. The only thing that surprised her, once she got over her shock that they seemed to finally be acting on their feelings, was that it took two such smart people so long to figure it out.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, hush-hush on the proposal plans," she said impatiently waving her hands. "Focus here, Timothy. Great-grandchild. Where are we on that? Marriage does not need to necessarily come first. This is the modern age, and you already know where babies come from. Look, what I'm saying is that I've waited a long time and worked very hard to be the wise krone in this family. I was a wonderful grandmother, but the mere title of great-grandmother kind of says it all for me."

McGee sighed as he saw the hope on her face. He understood it and was sad that what he had to say might not be what she wanted to hear precisely.

"Our careers take up a lot of our time," he said. "We've discussed family. We both agree it is something that interests us, but Abby's adopted. She thinks that kids who don't have homes already deserve a chance like she got. I'm not opposed to that so, maybe, if we decide to get married and we find that things are going well and the time is right, we'll look into adopting. I'll be the last of the genetic McGee bloodline to carry the name, but that doesn't mean all that much to me."

"Well, not being a McGee by birth, it doesn't mean much to me either," Penny quipped. "Being a family is what matters. Now, go back to the 'time is right' part. What part of I'm an old woman who wants to be crowned with the title of 'great' aren't your understanding? Now, you've got two extra bedrooms in that house. You can adopt more than one at a time, right?"

She spent the rest of the morning needling him in her expert and caring way, wheedling out of him other details about his discussions with Abby that eased her mind that they were in fact seriously discussing making their relationship permanent. What convinced her most was the lack of nerves he displayed when discussing it. There was no anxiousness, but there was anticipation. He was eager but calm about it. When she asked if they had gotten to the point of discussing a ring, he merely smiled in a way that raised a host of questions for her but that she let slide. Leaving him some privacy and sense of secrecy seemed only fair.

As visits go with her grandson, this was long overdue and did her heart good to see that he had progressed so far (in so many ways) from where he was the previous spring. She was sad as the afternoon rolled around and the time began approaching when he would need to leave. They had been looking at old photo albums with pictures from the family's home in Alameda when he asked her a surprise question.

"Did you ever hear anything about that Tiger Cruise with the Admiral when I was 8?" he asked abruptly.

Penny grasped his hand and squeezed it tightly.

"Don't refer to your father by his rank around me," she said sternly but smiled all the same. "Of course, I remember when you went on that cruise. Nelson and I helped out. He flew with you to San Diego to meet up with your father. I went to Alameda to spend time with your mother and finally meeting Sarah. She was three months old and a vicious if cute little bundle of screams."

McGee looked hard at her and shook his head.

"Grandpa Nelson?" he repeated. "I don't remember him being there. I was thinking about it the other day, and all I really remember is Dad yelling at me when he brought me home."

Penny shook her head and offered him an odd look.

"Your father didn't bring you home," Penny assured him. "He was called away during the cruise and left you there in the care of the cruise director, his protocol officer. He's lucky he didn't bring you home. I'd have keelhauled him myself. Don't you remember? You had a terrible asthma attack. You were listless and just a wreck when Commander Porter brought you home."

"Porter?" McGee repeated and shook his head as a jumble of thoughts tumbled over themselves in his mind. "No, I remember Dad bringing me home. I remember he yelled at me. He was angry with me."

"No, you must be confusing that weekend with another time, sweetheart," Penny shook her head confidently. "He got called to duty just as the cruise began. Somehow during the cruise, you fell and cut your leg and lost your inhaler so when your asthma attack hit it was bad. It terrified you. When you got home, you just curled up on the couch and wouldn't eat or talk for a few days. Honestly, I'm not sure who was madder at your father: me, Nelson, or your mother."

McGee shook his head. He clearly recalled his father yelling at him in an office of some sort near the pier and giving him a bitter lecture. He remembered the man grounding him. A cold knot formed in McGee's stomach as the research he had done since he was questioned by Gibbs came to his mind.

"Does the name Pamela Reaves mean anything to you?" he asked.

"What is this about?" Penny huffed.

"Penny, do you know who Pamela Reaves is?" he asked again.

"Your grandfather did the right thing," she insisted. "Nelson might have been retired, but there was nothing wrong with him reporting her. We were pleased that after seeing her you weren't so distraught, but no responsible therapist treats children the way she did."

McGee swallowed dryly as he drew out his phone. His finger hesitated over the button that would initiate the call he knew he had to make. He wanted to ask for more information to satisfy his need to know, but the investigator in him, the one that knew disclosure of details in the proper manner could be critical, knew that he shouldn't ask anything more without someone else around to hear it.

"Penny, you need to talk to someone about this for me," he said as he pressed the call button on his phone. "I don't think I can be in the room when you do that, but there's someone who needs to hear everything you know."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _NCIS Conference Room_**

Penny sipped on bitter coffee in the swivel chair near the windows as Gibbs entered the room as Sunday afternoon rolled around accompanied by Ducky. Her unexpected trip to the Navy Yard was feeling a bit like the last time she was taken to the office; although, this time she was given better accommodations.

"Why Agent Gibbs, you know, if you missed me, you could have just stopped by for lunch," she said coyly. "Getting Timothy to set up this date wasn't necessary. Donald, good to see you as well."

Gibbs sighed then nodded. The woman was a loon. He doubted her age did anything but accentuate the crazy that naturally existed in her.

"Good to see you, Penelope," Ducky said. "Jethro has asked me to sit in to offer my clinical guidance, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," she winked. "I'm flattered two such handsome men want to lock me away in a room all to themselves."

"The door isn't locked, Dr. Langston," Gibbs said as he took a seat.

"Now, now," she chided. "I've told you to call me Penny. My grandson assures me that I'm not a suspect in anything. So what's all this Dr. Langston business? We're practically family, Gibbs. I raised Timothy as a child; you've raised him as an adult."

"Let's talk about some of that childhood," Gibbs said. "Tell me about Pamela Reaves."

Her posture changed instantly. She sat up straight and her expression hardened from a playful grin to a stony scowl.

"She was a dangerous quack," Penny scoffed. "Nelson, my late husband, tried to get her court-martialed—and rightly so. You never knew Nelson, but he was a man with a very long fuse. It took a lot to get him riled. When he found out what that woman was doing, there was no fuse left. I don't know what friends in high places she had, but a two-star admiral who was a presidential advisor on intel matters didn't have enough clout to throw her out of the Navy. The most he could do was get her moved to 3,000 miles from his grandson."

Gibbs nodded. The latest twist of yet another admiral named McGee was unexpected. Nelson McGee was a legend in the Navy. He was the admiral that people spoke highly of—regardless of rank—both personally and professionally. He turned down his chance for a dizzyingly high post with the Pentagon and opted for retirement to allow his wife to continue pursuing her passions. He was not known for leaving careers in wreckage.

"What concerned him?" Gibbs asked.

"What she did to Timothy," Penny said. "I don't care that it worked and she got him talking again. I know that's all Carol cared about, but no one, for any reason, should hypnotize a child without more examination. I was suspicious when she wouldn't let us observe her session with Timothy. Carol and I waited for him while he spent an hour with her in her office. I'll grant you, the child who walked into that office and the one who walked out were very different, but I do not agree with the method."

Gibbs nodded and looked to Ducky.

"What does that mean?" the medical examiner coaxed. "How was he different?"

"Well, he was talking again and more like himself, which was what we wanted, but I wanted to know why he shut down," Penny huffed. "I don't believe in instant cure to trauma. I was reminded of that yet again this year, and while I'm thinking about it, I want to thank you both for supporting Timothy through everything he's going through. Although, Gibbs, you could have played it a little less gruff and aloof for a while there, but you've stuck by him and that has not gone unnoticed by him or by me, so thank you."

Gibbs accepted her thanks. It was no more or less than he would do for any of his team. When they were truly in need and he could help, that was his job. In his opinion, McGee did the hard parts himself and was still doing them.

"What made him stop talking?" he asked.

"He had a terrible asthma attack," she explained. "Commander Porter told us about it when he brought Timothy home. Something happened with one of his friends during the cruise. Timothy fell and cut his knee fairly deeply and somehow lost his inhaler in the process. His asthma was difficult to control back then. Add to that his father leaving him on the ship in the care of others with little notice didn't help matters. When the attack hit, he was terrified. I suspect he thought he was going to die. Someone onboard knew enough to treat him, but…"

"Hold on," Ducky stopped her. "Treat him? How? A rescue inhaler was not standard issue in a Navy infirmary in the 1980s."

Penny offered him a wide eyed expression that echoed with fear that she should have felt long ago.

"He was limping from a cut in his knee," Penny said with concern. "He had three stitches. I assumed that they gave him something in the infirmary. I looked and saw a red mark in his thigh, like an injection site. I just assumed that a nurse or doctor onboard gave him something to ease his breathing when they numbed him to sewed up his knee. It seemed logical for how groggy he was when John's colleague brought him home."

Gibbs locked eyes with Ducky briefly, encouraging him to continue as Penny became acutely aware that this was about more than an afternoon session with a therapist who used questionable practices.

"And the hypnosis from Ms. Reavers," Ducky began. "If you were not in the room, how do you know she was using it on children?"

"Oh, one of the mothers of another patient told me," Penny scowled. "She was delayed getting her little monster in to see Reaves because Timothy was in with her. She told me all about how successful Reaves was with calming down the little beast and helping him repress his urges to hurt other people. Little maniac was fond of hurting other kids on the base apparently. She told me the cure Reaves used was hypnosis. Well, if Timothy hadn't walked out that instant, I would have marched in there and yanked him out. You do not use that technique on a child if you are simply a counselor, and you certainly don't do it unsupervised."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Autopsy_**

Ducky sat at his desk shaking his head in disgust as he handed over the dispensary logs from a battleship that set sail in October 1987 with two dozen children permitted to attend a Tiger Cruise with their active military parent. It took someone nearly two hours of search after McGee departed with his grandmother to find the records in question, but once they did, it did not take Ducky long to find what he was searching for.

"And this is what?" Gibbs asked looking at the list.

"Troubling evidence," Ducky sighed angrily. "It wouldn't hold up in court, but after looking at that I can tell you that I suspect I know why Timothy doesn't remember that cruise. It's damn lucky they didn't kill him."

"What is Bentazepam?" Gibbs asked as he squinted at the word highlighted on the page.

"Definitely not something you give a child in the midst of an asthma attack," Ducky snarled. "In fact, it is something you give to induce a coma in a child to put them on a ventilator to suppress their natural breathing. From what I see on the daily log, the infirmary was exceedingly slow that day, which is unsurprising as they were putting into port and everyone was leaving the ship. There is a suture kit that was used, an injection of lidocaine, which is a numbing agent used frequently for stitching procedures, and then there is an allotment of Bentazepam used the same afternoon. It is a drug most often used to treat anxiety and insomnia in adults—not children. Its primary effects are sedation, but it also reduces the encoding of new memories, particularly in high doses. If given after a traumatic event, it can block the mind from storing the information at all. Timothy may well have seen something, but I highly doubt you'll ever get him to remember it. They poisoned him, Jethro. Then that woman finished it off with whatever post-hypnotic meddling she did. I think Nelson McGee was well within his rights to seek the woman's court-martial. He should have pushed harder for civilian criminal charges."

Gibbs passively listened to the indignation in the man's voice. He was bothered by what he heard, but it was not unexpected as he had already suspected this information after talking with Penny. The anger he felt was there, but it was dampened by the knowledge that the one who received the questionable treatment then went on to Johns Hopkins and MIT and become a healthy and productive adult who was a vital part of Gibbs' team. Certainly, Gibbs wanted the people involved in this twisted tale to pay for their wrongdoings, but there was a bigger picture here than just McGee. He had become a lead rather than a victim in Gibbs' mind.

"Sounds like Nelson McGee was just glad he blew the whistle on Reaves and made sure she couldn't get near his grandson again," Gibbs said. "So what you're telling me is that there's no point to trying to get McGee to remember anything more about that cruise."

Ducky sighed and nodded.

"Essentially," he said. "I am sorry if that harms your investigation, but for Timothy's sake I am glad. His mind has been taxed more than enough this year already. I suggest we disclose to him what we know so that he understands it is not an infirmity but a chemical reaction that has impaired his memory. He tells me that he is doing well with his sessions with Dr. Cranston. I would hate for anything he suspects after this morning to hinder his progress."

Gibbs half nodded. He had little concern with McGee's mental state. He would be rattled and questioning everything, but that was sort of his default setting. Gibbs only became concerned when he couldn't snap himself out of those states. Thankfully, he had a full-time watcher in Abby lately. If anything was off with McGee, she would raise the alarm without hesitation.

"When we find Reaves, I want you to profile her," Gibbs said as he dropped her military and available civilian and criminal records on the desk beside the man.

"You think she is part of your grander conspiracy?" Ducky asked.

"I don't think someone with a history of being a solid counselor to Vietnam vets suddenly starts focusing nearly entirely on kids and using hypnosis on them without a reason," Gibbs said. "Penny said there was a mother who brought her son there and she made him stop being aggressive. Can hypnosis do that?"

Ducky sighed and half-heartedly shrugged.

"The power of suggestion can help, but children are impulsive by nature," he replied. "Their cerebral cortex and other areas of the brain are still forming. It would serve no purpose."

"No therapeutic purpose," Gibbs said. "What if it was to make them forget something? Would that work?"

"I suppose, with limited success," Ducky offered. "I know of cases where in a controlled setting hypnosis has been used to help children who were witnesses to cataclysmic events so they can gain distance from the trauma. There is a case study of Chinese children trapped in a collapsed building after an earthquake. They received a series of treatments that helped them recall the incident but to do so in a more detached fashion so that they could feel more like children again. It was made as though they watched it on TV rather than experienced it first-hand."

Gibbs nodded as his stomach knotted. It was unlikely that multiple children had witnessed multiple murders in connection with a drug ring so that the conspirators brought in Reaves to hide their dirty work. The fact that she seemed to focus much of her practice on children troubled him deeply, especially since the shift in her work began at Camp Pendleton and continued to grow at Alameda and later Norfolk—two of three bases where Porter was assigned during the same timeframe.

"I know that look," Ducky said in a dire voice. "Your gut is telling you something."

"Yeah," Gibbs scowled as he set his jaw firmly and headed out of the room. "I need to find Carter Scott."

"No doubt you will," Ducky sighed to himself as he again shook his head at the medical record in front of him. "And god help whoever gets in your way of finding him."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come. I know this seems like a lengthy tale, and it is. Think of this like you're binge watching entire seasons. At this point, you are in the midway through 3rd season of this take on NCIS. It's not going to run that much longer so enjoy it while it lasts.


	36. Chapter 36

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _MTAC_**

Gibbs leaned on the desk, looming over the intel tech's shoulder, as he looked hard into the webcam unable to believe his ears. Months of wondering, weeks of demanding, several more days of hounding every contact in the NCIS log and the answer came down to this?

"What do you he's mean missing?" Gibbs asked.

"He's UA, sir," the Lt. Thornton, the naval officer on the screen said. "He went missing from his platoon a while ago during classified training exercises, sir. We were unable to report that outside of our chain due to the nature of the training until now."

"Lt. Commander Scott a SEAL," Gibbs said. "They don't go UA."

"This one did," Thornton replied. "There isn't much more I can tell you. The platoon had been training at an undisclosed location for several months. After a routine debrief, they were granted 12 hours of rack time. Lt. Commander Scott did not report for duty the next morning. A search was undertaken with available resources. Out of concern for compromising their mission, his absence was not reported beyond his direct line of command."

"And that didn't seem strange or like a bad idea to anyone?" Gibbs growled. "If the training was classified, the second he was determined as missing it should have compromised whatever it is you all needed to keep quiet. It merited a full search and bringing in additional assets."

Thornton kept his jaw hard as he glared back into the camera.

"I can't speak to that, sir," he replied. "I am just delivering the brief provided to me. I am a communications officer and was uninvolved in this matter until I was connected with you to deliver this information today."

Gibbs hung his head and ground his teeth for a moment as he considered his options. Obviously, asking to speak to someone higher on the food chain was in order. Demanding it seemed even better, but with days slipping away as a drug ring tied to the US Navy and the DEA continued unabated, he doubted he would get instant action by snarling at someone with only an index card of unhelpful talking points for answers. Getting more needed someone with more political clout and someone with more insidious ways. That meant a talk with Vance and Parsons was in order.

"I need all the reports pertaining to the search for Lt. Commander Scott," Gibbs said in a perfunctory manner, fully expecting to receive the closed door of "classified" to be thrown in his face.

But he was wrong.

"They are being transmitted to NCIS today," Thornton reported. "As of 0700 today, Lt. Commander Scott is officially considered an absconder from duty. He's NCIS's problem now, sir. If you find him, kindly put some cuffs on him and lock him up."

"He's been absent without leave since July, but today he's reported as UA?" Gibbs snorted. "Lieutenant, it's a hell of a coincidence that it happened the first morning you all agreed to talk to NCIS about the matter. Report this to your chain of command: I don't believe in coincidences."

Rather than wait for Thornton to reply, he ended the transmission. Gibbs seethed as he shook his head, stunned at the latest twist in his search for witnesses and answers. Turning over the information on Scott either meant the operation that made his disappearance covert was scrubbed or now over. Gibbs was not interested in a missing person's search. They already had a full complement of recent crimes in the DC area open and were still down one man in the field. All of the team's time away from recent crime scenes and interrogations was being siphoned off to deal with the dangling leads of the cold case. Adding another tentacle to it was just a burden they could not bear. There was also the trouble of one member of the team being too close to the wanted man to make looking for him wise.

Shaking his head in frustration as his gut told him more was going wrong with this investigation than was going right, Gibbs stalked out of MTAC glowering at anyone who dared make eye contact.

As he arrived in the squad room, he made straight for McGee's desk.

"I need you to find someone without it looking like you're looking," Gibbs said as he leaned on the man's desk.

"So something covert and under the table so that NCIS doesn't appear to be involved," McGee nodded but his expression was skeptical.

"No," Gibbs shook his head. "It's a missing person's case being sent to NCIS—an officer UA since this summer who was involved in a classified training. As of this morning, the case is being released to us. We're allowed to look—someone will officially be assigned to do that—but you're going to look as well. It just can't look like you're on the case."

McGee's eyes widened as he tried to follow the logic. He had done secretive searches for Gibbs in the past. However, those usually involved late night calls, some hacking into other agency databases and a get out of jail free waiver for his file.

"The easiest way to do that is to let someone else look for him," McGee stated the obvious. "Boss, I can't do field work yet."

"Yeah, I know that, McGee," Gibbs said testily. "I need a researcher, and that's your thing right now. Keep a casual eye on the actual search once it starts, but I need you to be ahead of that and find him first. This guy is the type we'll need every trick you've got in that keyboard to track. The Navy trained him to disappear, and it looks like maybe he did."

"Maybe?" McGee questioned. "Is there a chance he didn't leave of his own accord?"

"That's what the official investigation is going to determine," Gibbs replied. "That's the only field work this one will need for now. You keep tabs on them while you do your thing.

McGee nodded seriously.

"Why am I secretly looking while someone else is openly looking?" he asked. "You don't think they'll do a good job? Why can't I do the research openly?"

"Because I said so," Gibbs offered and received a quick nod of acquiescence then raised a frustrated chuckle in his throat. "I don't know who else might be looking for him or trying to stop us from finding him, or questioning him if we do find him. Also, there's a chance that if someone else was secretly looking for him that you're the first person they're first lead to find this guy."

McGee stared hard at Gibbs.

"He's been missing all summer and someone thinks I'm involved?" McGee blinked and then his expression hardened. "Does this involve Parsons? I told you a while back that someone was doing a deep, hard surf of all my financials and my mother's. You told me no one in my family was under suspicion in this investigation about… what we found coming out of Afghanistan."

Gibbs sighed and looked at his agent with understanding and frustration. The agent he trained, the one he trusted to watch the back of his teammates, was still in there somewhere but the timid and worrisome probie aspects of his personality were budding once again, no doubt born of the reclusive nature of being a desk jockey for so many months.

"I think we were both misled," Gibbs replied. "I give you my word that you and your family aren't under suspicion for anything. At first, Parsons took a look at your records to be certain you were clean. Once that happened, I think he learned more than he disclosed about other people of interest in this mess. Since then, someone has apparently been watching your accounts to see if you were helping this missing naval officer. That's why you need to be extra delicate when you look for him."

"Why would I help someone who went UA last summer?" McGee asked. "Actually, forget why and tell me how. I spent half the summer in Dallas waiting for stitches to heal. I wasn't in touch with anyone. What makes anyone think I could or would help this guy?"

"Tim, it's your friend, Carter Scott," Gibbs replied quietly and watched his agent's look go from uncertain to sharply concerned. "I know you're not involved. Hell, Parsons knows as well—he's just hoping Carter will reach out to you somehow. Look, until a few months ago he was a SEAL with an impeccable record, but something made him go UA last summer; that's why we haven't been able to reach him. Now, it's your job to find him. Do it quickly. Do it quietly. Do whatever you need to do, and do not let me down."

"You got it, Boss," McGee replied with determination as he turned toward his computer and began typing.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

The problem with cases that extended, unnoticed, over many years was that it seemed to take just as long to pull the pieces together. In between the emails and the progress updates (of which there seemed to be very), there was other work to be done. Life in the Navy and Marine Corps went on. Marines were busted, bodies of sailors were found, ranking officials were the victims of burglary—routine stuff but time consuming all the same.

Gibbs' team back-burnered full focus on the overseas drug ring yet again while hoping for Parsons to supply with new intel, warrants, or a new break. Precisely none came their way. Pamela Reaves disappeared from Florida. Trent Kort remained a shadow. Like Reaves, Carter Scott was doing an impressing Hoffa impersonation. Meanwhile, the U.N. gave Admiral Paul Porter a humanitarian award for his leadership in dealing with Syrian refugees found floating in the Med that saved lives and kept the US out of further political quagmires.

On the home front, Tony and Zoe were drifting apart. The reasons were unstated, but the telling factor, he believed, was that he didn't feel all that bad whenever she was gone on long assignments. In fact, he felt liberated and that seemed like it should be sad but for some reason wasn't.

McGee labored for hours at the office, when not directly assisting the team, attempting to locate his childhood friend turned derelict SEAL. The searches were fruitless, which wasn't surprising, but the trick was not to leave any breadcrumbs behind to show he was searching. While he was a firm believer in the power of servers and their nearly endless reams of data for finding out what he needed to know, the itch to be back in the field actually physically following up on leads rather than taking quiet calls at his desk grew stronger with each day of failure. Also growing was his interest in the case that spawned all of these side jobs: heroin sales and transport that no one was ready to confirm existed.

On the home front, things were more prosaic. He and Abby compromised on parking spaces in their driveway and managed to get all of their combined computer equipment in the small office at their new home without needing an arbitrator on whose took priority with the multi-band router. The oddest part of living together for McGee was that the window in their bedroom looked diagonally into Gibbs' backyard. The proximity of the house to his boss's did not occur to McGee until he noted those compromising angles. They were neighbors who back property touched in one corner—the southwest corner of Gibbs' yard touched the northeast corner of Abby and McGee's. To keep from being reminded of the closeness and the feeling Gibbs could look up and see him in the same room where he slept with Abby, McGee simply kept the curtains closed most of the time.

"Eventually, you'll stop thinking he's spying on us and open the curtains again," Abby remarked one morning as she walked out of the bathroom wearing just a towel.

"I don't think he's spying," McGee insisted. "I just was thinking that if I leave them open, he could accidentally see you parading around naked. That's all."

"I'm not naked," she said as she peered into the closet to look for her day's wardrobe. "I have a towel on, plus Gibbs isn't a peeping Tom."

"What if Tony's at his place?" McGee suggested.

That earned him a wide-eyed look after she whipped her head around to look at him in surprise. McGee nodded and folded his arms proudly.

"Those stay closed," Abby pointed at the drapes. "Not because I don't trust Tony, but because… because…. I like my bedroom to be dark. It's conducive to restful sleep."

McGee smirked but did not disagree. He sighed contentedly as he watched her rifle through the clothing in front of her. As he had explained to his grandmother, transitioning to living together was remarkably easy after the first few week or two of each other trying much too hard to not be intrusive to the other. At first, McGee feared all his hopes and plans for their future were on the verge of imploding, but one frustrated argument about placement of a toothbrush cleared the air (once they realized their grumbling complaints were rather funny when considered in the big picture of things wrong in the world). Since that first week, however, McGee experienced what he could only describe as the first true period of bliss in his life.

And it was stretching into an extensive period.

Sure, there were aggravations and not everything was flawless, but despite the crisp turn in the weather, the frustration of traffic, the hindrance of cases that took up time and left the team exhausted, McGee did not think he ever felt so grounded and stable in his entire life. His sister came by for dinner and spent more of her time talking to Abby about New Orleans and southern writers than she did harassing her brother. His mother called weekly and still hinted that he jumped too fast into his living arrangement with Abby but was now accepting his assertions that he was fully recovered. Penny video conferenced from an environmental science symposium in Rio and said she had a surprise belated housewarming gift to give them when she returned, but there was a look in her eye that McGee knew was hoping for updates about progress on something other than living arrangements.

"Is everything going good for you?" McGee asked abruptly as he finished tying his shoe in preparation to leave for work.

"Good?" Abby repeated as her head popped through the t-shirt she was pulling on. "Good how?"

"This," McGee said gesturing between them. "You and me. Us. The living and working together thing. It's still going well, right?"

"Uh, yeah," she nodded skeptically. "I think so. Why? Is something bothering you?"

"No," McGee shook his head. "Nothing is, and that's kind of my point. I was thinking that I can't remember a time in my life where things have been this smooth and, well, good for this long for no reason at all."

Abby folded her arms and scoffed as she shook her head.

"Not no reason," she corrected him. "For a very logical and justifiable reason. You're happy. You have a tendency to be a little… gloomy and slightly grumpy when you're bored or things are not precisely to your liking. You're very…"

"I'm not finicky," he challenged before she uttered the word.

"I was going to say precise," Abby assured him. "When things lack your preferred precision it makes you… grumbly and pouty. You haven't had a bout of that in a long while."

"Wait, I don't pout," McGee objected.

"Would you prefer I said sulk?" Abby nodded as she smiled and approached to run her fingers through his hair. "You know how you get, but it's okay, Timmy. I understand. Sometimes you just have too much going on in that head of yours."

"Sulking?" he questioned and grimaced as it sounded fretful even to his ears.

"Okay, brooding then," she relented as she stepped back and began braiding her hair into pig tails. "It mostly happens when you're in a rut and then you get more introverted and worried. Then you get all twisted up inside and angsty. However, lately you're not in one of those moods because you've stopped worrying about ten thousand things all at once and have let yourself be happy. That's no reason to worry, McGee. It's actually a good thing."

He nodded at her offering. It made sense—all except the pouting thing; he might brood (occasionally) but pouting and sulking were what Sarah did. Besides, the important thing was what Abby said: Life was good. He wasn't imagining that or deluding himself. It was different from any way he'd ever felt before, and he knew that was what made it real.

"So this is our life now?" he asked. "I mean, this is now an average day in the life of us?"

She dropped her hands from her hair and turned to look at him with concern.

"Um, I think so," she replied with a quizzical look. "Why are you asking? This coming out of the blue so I'm just wondering. Is our new normal a problem? Do we need to discuss it? Are you thinking we need to be some other way?"

"No," McGee shook his head quickly. "Not at all. I like this. It's good. I was just worried that it was just me who thought that. I was hoping it wasn't monotonous for you or that going at an even keel like this might be boring you."

Abby smiled and crossed the room then kissed him robustly on the cheek.

"I've had enough of chaos and living on the edge of confusion," she assured him. "This is called being happy. Happy is never boring. Do I need to make a rule for that?"

McGee hung his head and groaned lightly. Since moving in together, Abby had begun making her own set of rules. The trouble was, she did not tell McGee what they were. She would tangentially refer to them, but he needed to analyze the situation in which they were referenced to deduce what she meant. He did ask about several of them and found she was enjoying his confusion too much to impart much detail. In truth, he liked the game. Thus far, none of the rules were difficult to live with—assuming he was obeying them, which he couldn't be certain but her lack of arguing left him to believe he was. He just worried he might eventually mix up her rules with Gibbs.

"Only if you tell me which number it is on the list," he remarked and received a wide toothy grin in response that told him it would never happen.

"Are we riding in together today?" she asked instead. "If not, you need to get moving. You're blocking in my car."

"We may as well ride together," McGee remarked. "If we're still going out to dinner that is."

"If?" she repeated and pinched his arm. "You're not breaking a date with me, Mister. I may be happy, but I have expectations. It's your turn to take me out. You're not getting out of that just because things are going well. Still going out on dates is what keeps things going well and perpetuates this culture of happiness."

"Culture of happiness?" he repeated.

"You promised me we'd go to the art show to see my friend Randy's sculptures and then have a late dinner," she asserted. "I took you to the lecture at the Air and Space Museum last week to hear your beloved propulsion expert talk about the future of hover crafts and jetpacks."

"Rocket belts," he corrected her lightly. "I know you did, and we will go to the gallery tonight assuming Gibbs doesn't need me in the office—promise."

Abby nodded happily and locked her pinkie with his briefly as McGee said he would ready to leave in two minutes. Abby flitted out of the room calling out the need to keep to the schedule as there was a Caf-Pow in need of rescuing at the store and she could hear it calling to her. McGee smirked then, once she was downstairs, went to the locked box on his dresser. He dialed the combination and pulled out his credentials and card to access the building. He also lifted out a small box that he placed in there two weeks earlier. He held onto it during the intervening days believing he would know when the time was right.

After their brief discussion that day, he knew it had and his mind was made up.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 **Gibbs House**

As mornings went, this one was typical. Gibbs woke from a dream of Shannon, disappointed to find that it was just a dream. He rolled off the couch and felt every knot in every muscle and ever creak in every joint that was there the day before, which was a day that started early and ended late. Not for any good reason. Most of it was spent waiting. A head-on collision with an off-duty Marine and a semi called all field members of the team out on the roads an hour before sunrise. The ensuing investigation turned up a drag race gone horribly wrong. In between gathering evidence at the scene and waiting for Ducky's autopsy report, Parsons sent word that he hoped to hear news about a certain off-the-grid ex-CIA operative. What that meant in terms of a timeline, Gibbs did not know.

Waiting was never his strong suit. Whether it was for a report to hit his desk, a target to move into his sights, or a murderous spy and traitor to make contact, simply doing nothing was difficult for the former gunnery sergeant. Thankfully, his team gave him ample reasons to keep him busy by feeling as though he was running an adult daycare. As typically happened, the trouble started with Tony. Like a kindergartener who had too much sugar, he had a hard time keeping quiet and sitting still at his desk when he was not on a focus demanding task. Adding his favorite toy (McGee) to the mix just increased the commotion the senior agent could cause. So far, Gibbs had stopped an impending rubber band war (one McGee was clueless was brewing), confiscated a scorpion made of pinch clips set in the path between McGee's chair and the filing cabinet, and refereed a pointless argument between the two agents regarding who the best James Bond was. Gibbs was pretty sure Tony only chose Connery because he wanted to do the impersonation. McGee's pick of Daniel Craig seemed more rooted in reality as the younger agent claimed that rendition of the spy accomplished fewer scientifically impossible feats in his movies—or so the foundation of his debate topic claimed. When Bishop agreed with McGee (no concrete reason given) it only encouraged Tony to up his argument in both details and decibels.

Gibbs shook his head, acutely recalling the throb in his temples from their bickering. It was good to have those moments in the squad room again; he had just forgotten what they did to his nerves. Having McGee still grounded made punishing him for his participation harder but not impossible. Tony could be sent on less desirable field work; McGee could only be stuck with the least desirable paperwork. Gibbs did what he could to remind both of them that the playground spat was not supposed to happen on government time, but the chiming he heard once they were sent to their individual corners let him know the argument had continued through the office internal chat program.

With a sigh of defeat that he had been reduced to scaring them sufficiently into pretend to act like professionals, Gibbs padded his way into the kitchen to make coffee. The first cup was always necessary to get going so he could reach the diner where he would get official first cup for the office. While standing by the machine waiting for it to hit the right temperature, he heard the front door open. The soft hushed steps that followed were not ones he recognized. Instinctively, he reached for his gun and turned around.

"And good morning to you, too, Gibbs," Trent Kort sneered. "Sicced your bloody dog on me. Why? You could have just called."

As he spoke, Kort walked through the room confidently. He reached for a mug on the shelf and displaced Gibbs's cup under the drip to fill his own. Gibbs allowed the maneuver as he kept his weapon trained on the man.

"Just wanted you to know that even a paper chasing lawyer who works for the Inspector General could find you," Gibbs replied as he put the gun down and took the mug from Kort's hand.

The former CIA agent, now sporting a glass eye, retrieved the mug he initially pushed aside and poured another cup.

"What is it you want?" he asked.

"Information," Gibbs replied. "Drug ring dating back to the 1980s running out of naval and marine bases on the west coast for certain, probably with ties to Colombia and cocaine initially and later branched out to the poppy fields of Afghanistan. A DEA agent named Mark Johnson was involved. I'm betting Langley knew all about it. Hell, the CIA probably started the whole thing or at least protected it once they discovered it. No way anything like this slipped by without their notice."

"Before my time," Kort shrugged.

"Never stopped you before," Gibbs reminded him.

"Not exactly in good graces with my old mates at the company," Kort offered. "They sent Ray Cruz to kill me. He failed, obviously, but I think he was supposed to—more of an insult and a warning. I mean, sending Cruz to kill me? It's like sending DiNozzo to be my bodyguard. Not exactly the right man for the job—not really interested in getting it done."

Gibbs nodded. He never saw Cruz as a cold-blooded killer. He did kill several people, without Agency permission, but he was sloppy about it in the end, and the regret he felt was apparent when he confessed to Ziva.

"I'd show you more respect," Gibbs said as he took a swing of his coffee. "If I wanted you dead, I'd do it myself."

"See, that's what I like about you," Kort smiled. "You're honest and warm-hearted. Who benefits if I get this information?"

"Not you," Gibbs said. "We're rolling the ring up now. I just need to know where it began and how it hid for so long. We think we've got the leaders of it figured out. Just a matter of time before the warrants are filed."

Kort looked at him sharply. He shook his head and offered a skeptically expression.

"There's more to it than that," Kort insisted. "This one is personal for you. I can see it. Who did they frame or kill that you were supposed to protect?"

Gibbs shook his head. It turned out they killed, indirectly, his family while he was a Marine fighting in Operation Desert Storm. Later, they nearly killed one of his team, one of his second family. Gibbs vowed to himself that no more families would suffer and perish because of this.

"Someone close," Kort nodded. "This will mean you owe me."

Gibbs nodded. He expected that and was prepared to pay the price. Kort wasn't apt to ask him to break the law; he knew Gibbs would shoot him first. He would just want a return of information at some point in the future. Gibbs figured it was a fair trade. After all, there was a chance the CIA might finally get someone to fulfill their hit on Kort and save Gibbs the trouble of repaying this favor.

"You get me what I want, and we'll talk about my IOU," he said

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 **Abby's Lab**

Abby sat at her desk waiting for the rest of her software upgrade packets to open. New security codes were in place following a discovery by the cyber unit in drilling into the pirated laptop that exposed existing vulnerabilities in the NCIS firewall. There was no evidence of a breech, but since the intrusions of people like Harper Dearing several years earlier, any suspected soft spots in the electronic perimeter were plugged quickly. While she waited for the latest patches to install, she sat quietly at her desk spinning in her chair.

"It's like an amusement park all your own down here, isn't it?" Tony asked from the doorway.

"It kind of is," Abby nodded. "What are you doing down here? I didn't call you guys. I don't have anything from you at all about… anything. Did you all get a new forensic specialist and not tell me?"

Tony smirked. NCIS without Abby didn't seem possible. While she was offered jobs in the private sector frequently, she never seemed tempted to go. Certainly rumors abounded all the time to the contrary, but those who knew her best were never sucked in… well, not any more.

"Your number three tech, Mo, had a fingerprint match for me on the carjacking at Little Creek," Tony revealed. "We use the JV-Team mostly lately. You're Varsity, Abby. We only call you in now when it's big time. Thankfully, we don't have a lot of that right now. We're in limbo with everything big, and nothing too sticky calls us out on a daily basis. I'm not sure if it worries me or pleases me."

Abby smiled and nodded.

"I know what you mean," she agreed. "Less awful crime—good. Waiting for awful to inevitably return—bad. As a scientist, I know there really isn't a whole lot of evidence to suggest fate and karma are real; as a believer in the hinkiness of life and forces beyond our limited understanding of the universe, I know something else is surely on the horizon. Is it wrong of me to want it to hold off until after the holidays? Not that January is a great time for murder to come to town, but at least everyone can have a nice Thanksgiving and Christmas."

Tony's mouth hung open as he considered the statement. It was both a hopeful and macabre statement at the same time—something only a rational scientist (who also believed in voodoo) like Abby could say and not make it seem overly crazy or cruelly cold.

"That's one wish Santa probably doesn't hear often, but shouldn't we just keep our fingers crossed to make it through Halloween next week with things being slow?" he wondered.

"That's a good plan," she narrowed her eyes as she nodded. "I can get on board with that. So, if you've got your fingerprint results, why are you still here? Why aren't you out arresting the guy?"

"I delegated," Tony replied as he leaned casually on the doorframe.

"Who?" Abby asked. "You don't give Gibbs orders and Ellie can't go by herself." She cocked her head to the side then her eyes opened wide with fear as her face grew ashen. "You didn't let McGee go with her, did you? Tony, he's not cleared to go into the field."

"And he didn't," Tony scoffed. "Calm down. The guy we want was picked up on a DUI last night. Metro still had him in the drunk tank when our BOLO went out. They're running him over to us now. Your McSqueeze is upstairs on paperwork patrol."

Abby sighed and sank back into her chair with relief. Tony watched the reaction with varying levels of interest and concern. Abby worried about all the agents at NCIS. Gibbs' team was ultra-close to her so they were usually first in her thoughts. McGee, even if he wasn't her current bed buddy, would receive extra mother-henning from her due to his waltz with the grim reaper nearly six months earlier. The fact that there was more between them now simply amplified her normally exaggerated worry response.

"Are you ready for that?" Tony asked. "The day when he gets re-instated? It's what he wants deep down even if he doesn't know it yet. You know that, right? He's not going to sit at a desk forever, Abby. If he was, he would have asked for a transfer to cyber already."

She nodded quietly and chewed her lip. Worried etched around the frown on her face.

"You tell him you're freaked about it?" Tony wondered. "I mean, it's not my place to give you relationship advice, but if you hadn't noticed the guy is a little hung up on you. He tends to be in tune with your moods. He's kind of agitated today so now I think I know why. It's probably you and your worrying. Look, if you're that worried, you should say something to him. I don't think it'll change his mind, but at least he'll know why you're on edge that might settle him down a bit, which I would appreciate because he's driving me nuts today with the jumpiness and the fidgeting at his desk."

Abby sighed and considered what he said. She had mentioned her fears to McGee a while ago. He listened; he just didn't agree they were well-founded. He offered her the simple statement of his belief that everything would work out and be fine in the end. She knew, logically, that was likely true. McGee had been a field agent for more than a decade. He faced danger on various occasions, and she worried a little bit each day—for all of Gibbs team—but now having him return to a job that meant he could get shot at any given day was harder.

"He knows I'm worried and why," Abby shrugged. "He said I'll get used to it again. I know he's right, but I don't have to like it. I don't like it when you and Gibbs or Ellie are out of the office either, but I manage. After all, most of the time you come back without any incident. I guess was less worried when Ziva was around. Not that you all aren't completely competent. The world just seemed a little less volatile back then."

"Maybe the world just seemed that way in comparison to our little Hebrew ninja," Tony joked. "After all, she had a few impulse control issues that would make the stock market look predictable."

He tried smiling but he could see the pressing fear in her eyes.

"Speaking of predictable, how is the dullness level at Chez McAbby?" Tony wondered. "You must have the place all decked out for Halloween by now. No more apartment dwelling means you have an entire canvas of outside to give your own special Scuito touch. Neighborhoods compete with that kind of stuff. I've been around that block near Gibbs' house at Halloween. Amateurs, all of them. You need to show them how a pro does it."

Abby smiled. She did consider breaking out skeletons and cobwebs and grave makers for the porch and front yard, but like her coffin bed, those things gave her a no so subtle chill still. Granted, a smiling skeleton wearing a top hat and bowtie was quite spiffy in her mind, but she still wasn't ready to embrace the spooky fascination and celebration of death. It had come too close to visiting someone she loved that year. It did more than lessen her eagerness for the spooky holiday. It sent her beloved coffin to Raleigh, NC, where it held a place of honor at a friend's museum exhibit to great wooden craftsmanship. It was the centerpiece in the seciont dedicated to 19th century creations. But her home wasn't a place she was interested in giving a horror film look that year.

"I'm thinking I'll sit this year out," she replied. "I'll still put out a fleet of jack-o-lanterns and my spider lights, but I don't want to overwhelm the neighbors our first go around. It's strategic. I'll scope out the competition and get to know who the top contestants are and see what they can do. Next year, I'll be the upstart who wows them all."

Tony smirked. He did not buy the excuse but saw no reason to tell her. Again, he knew the truth was rooted in what happened to McGee and the psychological wounds they all received when he nearly died. The only person who likely wouldn't be bothered by the haunting reminders of graves and death on the swiftly approaching holiday was McGee himself, who seemed oblivious to the connection.

"So, what is it with him for you?" Tony asked rather than delve into the psych issue. "I get his thing for you. You are McGee's walk on the wild side. But what is it you see in him? You give up your zealously devout independence to live with him—someone you can't even stand to travel with—why? And don't tell me it's because the sex is great because I won't believe you and even if I did, I don't need that in my head."

Abby considered the question. She would help preserve Tony's peace of mind and withhold how great the sex was, because it was fantastic. The why of their relationship was something she asked herself frequently leading up to her new living situation. The answer, when it came to her, was simple and obvious, yet for more than 10 years, what Tony said about her resistance to being intimately and monogamously involved with McGee was true. No one ever aggravated her like McGee. Not Tony. Never Gibbs. Not Palmer. No one—not ever. Anyone who infuriated or agitated or frustrated like that was not someone she would consider a friend… no one except McGee. He was more than her friend. He was her best friend. He was her soulmate.

"I'm in love him," she answered plainly.

"You love nearly everyone," Tony remarked.

"No, I didn't say I love him, I said I'm in love with him—it's different," she sighed. "I know it must seem strange, knowing us like you do from what you've seen and heard over the last decade or so. I haven't always seemed to treat him well, and I realize why now. It's because I trust him completely."

"You always hurt the one you love?" Tony offered with an eye roll but stopped as she nodded solemnly.

"That's why I show him that not so appealing side of me," she said. "It's a question of trust. I feel safe with him, being sometimes my most raw and on my worst behavior, because I don't need to hide that from him. I always know he'll forgive me and not hold it against me. It's kind of like I'm Lois Lane to his Clark Kent that way."

Tony choked on the suggestion and shook his head.

"McGee as Superman?" he blinked and scoffed. "I made an Ironman joke—and it was a complete joke—about him and his recovery, but how are you seeing Superman in our Super-Asthmatic?"

"Think about it," Abby explained. "Superman works as Clark Kent, a geeky and mild-mannered reporter, side-by-side with the determined and fiery Lois Lane; she's snappish and harsh to him sometimes, but then she sees that other part of him. He never holds any of her sharp behavior against her because he's a good man—a better man than she deserves, but in the end she's a better person for knowing him."

Tony considered her words then sighed and shook his head.

"I'd buy that except I know that you think Gibbs is Superman," he corrected her as he fought a playful smirk. "Actually, I kind of do, too. Maybe you should be having this conversation with him."

Her nostrils flared as she narrowed her eyes in mock anger as she leaned forward in her chair.

"I start to pour my heart out and you throw Gibbs in my face," she said. "I was being serious. You should never be sarcastic when talking about Superman… or any superhero. As one yourself, you should know that, Tony."

He shrugged casually but puffed out his chest proudly.

"Well, I never got my own letter or cape," he replied. "I guess I must be Batman. After all, I do have a pasty sidekick."

Abby frowned at his continued flippancy. Tony did understand her, though. Just like he understood why she spent so much time in the lab alone. It was a sanctuary for her, and she found purpose and meaning in life through the answers she helped discover there. Her closest personal ties were interwoven with the office. It was her family tree in many respects.

"It's pretty scary when you look inside yourself and see something you don't find very appealing," Abby admitted. "If I've learned anything in the last few years it's the power of timing. The right timing can work magic, and the wrong timing can lead to disaster. Sometimes, people need a little distance to tell the difference between the two. Previously, I was never ready to see that what was right in front of me was McGee, this whole time. It didn't matter how many times other people pointed it out, I didn't want to hear it because it would mean either I was completely in denial about my feelings or that I had wasted so much precious time being deluded or blind. Then this spring when Burt asked me to go with him and I said no, I started thinking of all the reason why staying here was best and I started thinking about Tim.

"I realized I wasn't thinking about him the right way all along," she continued. "I guess I hadn't arrived at the right time to see what I needed to see until then. Then, not long after I realized that, he nearly died. It was a big wakeup call. I won't make that mistake about him again."

Tony chuckled and pictured the besotted look that would be on McGee's face if he heard this kind of confession. It surely would end his jitters and worries for the day, Tony predicted.

"He does know," Abby offered. "A couple weeks ago we were talking about this exact thing and I asked Tim how he did it. All these years, I was interested in nearly anything but him. Meanwhile, he was living his life and trying to move on, but even he admits he never put the chance of us being together again out of his mind fully. I asked him how he could do that for so long with no evidence there was a reason t hope. He told me that hope will always find a way and that it never made sense to him to rush something he wanted to last forever."

"Such a sap," Tony scoffed.

It was actually a nice sentiment, Tony thought, a touching and certainly heartfelt one that only a naïve fool like McGee could say and mean. The line surely would have had a place of prominence in one of McGee's books had he ever written another. Abby might say she loved McGee; McGee was certainly infatuated with her. Still, Tony worried about both of his friends. History dictated that this fling would fall apart eventually. Tony just hoped they both enjoyed it while it lasted and that their friendship could survive another break up.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Evening stole into the room with the wind whipping at the large windows onto the Navy Yard. The forecast was for falling temperatures but no rain. The moon was rising and giving an Octobery glow to the district. Tony sat at his desk drumming on it as he waited for his day to end.

"Would you knock that off?" McGee growled from his desk where he was signing the final custody reports for the official file of the carjacker. "I'm trying to concentrate while you perform your bongo concert."

Tony got their suspect to confess in about 10 minutes of talking to him so the report, which had somehow taken McGee half the day to finish compiling paperwork for, should have been done in 20 minutes at most. All McGee was allowed to do was watch from behind the glass—and he only did that to observe for a bet. Tony wagered Ellie he could break the guy in less than 15 minutes. She, foolishly, took the bet and had McGee standing by with a stopwatch to act as a witness. Since losing the $20 to her, Tony had spent the late afternoon musing out loud what he might do with his winnings.

"Something bothering you, McTwitchy?" Tony asked as he rocked back in his chair. "You've been worked up all day and been checking your watch every other minute for the last hour. You that eager to get done work?"

"You might say that," McGee said aloofly as he slid his report into an envelope then crossed the room to place it on Gibbs' desk.

When he returned, he turned off his computer, then reached into the drawer of his desk. He tried to be inconspicuous and covertly palm the small box he had locked in there that morning. However, Tony's eager eagle eyes were watching.

While he tried slipping the item into his jacket pocket surreptitiously, Tony's zeroed in. He propelled his chair across the floor and made a grab for his partner's wrist, earning McGee's fierce glare.

"Now, now, it's not nice to keep secrets," Tony said. "I thought we got that settled a few years ago when you were masquerading after hours as Mr. Gemcity. What are you trying to hide from me now?"

He managed to pry the box from McGee's hand. He got it open a crack before McGee snapped it shut and stripped it from Tony's fingers. Stunned, Tony gaped and began shaking his head.

"Whoa!" Tony guffawed. "No. That looks like…. It can't be. No. That is not… You are not… McGee. Just, no!"

McGee remained silent as he stashed the box in his jacket as Tony wrestled with him to grab for it once more.

"Is that what I think it is?" Tony demanded as Gibbs breezed into the room from his latest coffee run to find his two agents (yet again) practically sharing the same air space. "Boss, did you see this?"

"Kind of hard to miss," Gibbs said as he stood beside McGee's desk wearing a perturbed scowl. "DiNozzo, what did I tell you about molesting your partner?"

"Never in daylight, in front of company, or before 5 p.m.," Tony answered dutifully as he let go of McGee and began counting off the restrictions on his fingers. "No, wait. That's what my father told me about streaking when I was in high school. Hold on. I'll remember. Give me a second to jog my memory."

Gibbs expertly reached forward and slapped the back of his agent's head—effectively jogging his memory for him. Tony stepped away and gave his chair a gentle shove, sending it back to his desk. Gibbs remained in front of McGee and held out his hand. The junior agent handed him the box. Gibbs opened it and looked inside. He nodded as he snapped it shut then handed it back.

"Good choice," Gibbs said and returned to his desk.

"Good choice?" Tony repeated. "Boss, you do realize what that is, don't you? I mean, you must. You bought four of them."

Gibbs looked hard at his senior agent when then recoiled and shrugged.

"I mean, of course you know," Tony began. "I just didn't think you'd think it was a good idea. Or at least you'd be a bit surprised."

"By what?" Gibbs asked.

"By what he's going to do with that," Tony said pointing agitatedly at McGee. "He's going to ask Abby… you know. Don't you think it's a bit soon for that? McGee, listen to the man if you won't listen to me. I get it. You're in the thrall of some relationship bliss following a pretty stressful and painful spring and summer, but you can't just propose because you've been shacking up for a few weeks. These things take time. Boss, help me here."

Gibbs returned to his desk and sat down. Unconcerned, he put on his glasses and pulled McGee's report from the envelope and started reading. Tony raised his eyebrows in shock and a hint of apprehension.

"Boss?" Tony prodded. "He's not kidding. He's going to do this."

"Yeah, I know," Gibbs replied in a bored tone while continuing to read.

Tony ran his hands nervously through his hair as he stood, blocking McGee from leaving his desk. The senior agent shook his head in warning as he lowered his voice and offered a sincere expression.

"Tim, I'm not joking or teasing at the moment," Tony said. "I'm being serious. I get it. You're happy right now. That's great. In fact, I prefer working with you when you are, even if that chipper attitude makes me want to run you over with the van once in a while. That's why, as your friend, I'm going to do you a solid here. You need to cancel whatever you are planning. I mean it. This thing you've got going with Abby is good, so why do anything to change it? If you give her that ring and ask her to marry you, you'll be sorry."

"No, I won't," McGee shook his head as he attempted to leave.

"You will when she says no and breaks up with you," Tony assured him and blocked his exit. "This is the same mistake you made the last time."

"I've never asked Abby to marry me before," McGee disagreed.

Tony scoffed and shook his head before slapping the back of McGee's. The older agent glowered at his partner and spoke with dire earnestness.

"No, but you misread the course and speed of your relationship with her every time," Tony assessed. "That's why it fell apart last time. You accelerated into the curve and crashed into the wall. You may be thinking in terms of forever, but she's just thinking it's Friday."

"She's right; it is Friday," McGee offered attempting to bypass him again. "Actually, she's thinking we're going out for dinner after we go to her friend's art show in Crystal City, which we are. It's just not all that's on the agenda for tonight."

Tony put his hands on McGee's shoulders and held him firmly in place. He looked him squarely in the eye and saw a heartbreaking level of excitement and determination.

"Stop," Tony ordered in a desperate tone. "All you're going to do to night is go see some freaky, twisted metal rods and daggers that the National Endowment for the Arts dropped a grant on and called it art. Trust me, if you then bring her to a restaurant and slip in your question in before she orders desserts, your night will end badly. I'll tell you what's going to happen. She's going to give you that pitying look and tell you exactly what I just did: You've read your relationship all wrong. It's going to crush you this time, Probie. I think recovering from being shot will seem like a picnic in comparison to recovering from this. Don't do it to yourself. Leave well enough alone."

McGee shook his head confidently as he stripped Tony's hands from bracing him backward. He then stepped around his partner but was stopped again when Tony grabbed his elbow firmly.

"I mean it, Tim," Tony said with a sincere expression. "You've got a good thing going here. You're happy. She's happy. Don't ruin it by changing up the game when the offense you're running is working. Getting greedy and wanting more so soon is asking for disaster. You're rushing into this. Give it some more time. Hand me that rock. I'll lock it up and keep it so you don't do anything rash."

He turned his head to seek reinforcement from the voice of experience and reason.

"Boss, please tell him," Tony pleaded. "Are you listening to any of this? Do you know what it's like to work with him when he's miserable? Or worse, when he's Abby-miserable?"

Gibbs peered over his glasses.

"Leave him be, DiNozzo," he said.

"You're not the least bit concerned by this?" Tony asked, letting go of McGee and turned concerned eyes on Gibbs who merely rolled his eyes.

McGee looked nervously to Gibbs for a final nod.

"Wish me luck?" he asked.

"Nope," Gibbs said as he shook his head. "Not my style. Besides, she already knows you're gonna ask at some point."

"Yeah, but she doesn't know when," McGee grinned. "She said she wanted to be surprised, and that's kind of hard to do with Abby, so keeping it a secret has been difficult."

Gibbs gave him a stern look and waved him tersely out of the squad room. McGee bobbed his head and headed toward the elevators. Tony stood with his mouth opening and closing as he tried to comprehend what was occurring.

"He told you he was going to do this?" Tony questioned. "Why you? Can't be for advice. You're the last person some should ask for advice regarding marriage. No, it must be… Oh my god."

Tony chuckled and shook his head. He pointed between the space where McGee had stood and Gibbs then back again while bobbing his head.

"That's gotta be it," he said. "He asked your permission, didn't he? He went to you and wanted your blessing to make an honest woman of Abby, am I right?"

Gibbs looked flatly at him. Tony grinned.

"Not that she's not an honest woman," Tony said as he back peddled. "She's an adult. What she does with her time and her life is her business, and I'm sure it's all honest and honorable. Strange, of course, since it involves McGee, but still honorable."

He paused and looked at the now empty space around McGee's desk. His shoulders dropped as he huffed in shock.

"Is he really proposing to her?" he asked.

"Sounds like it," Gibbs said.

"Any chance she'll say no?" Tony asked with genuine concern.

"There's always a chance," Gibbs replied.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come.


	37. Chapter 37

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Elevator_**

McGee paced in the elevator trying to calm himself following Tony's well-intentioned but ill-timed warnings. Sure, Tony had a point. He and Abby had only begun dating a few months earlier and living with her a few weeks prior. There was a lot of uncertainty in their past. At times, they seemed more like two bratty kids on the playground who liked each other and demonstrated it by not playing nice with each other.

But that was then. Things were different. They had discussions about a future—talks involving long range plans and binding decisions. While those normally gave Abby jitters, she didn't run from them this time. In the past, just talking about dating seriously made her bolt. This time, she was the one who initiated the relationship. She was the one who asked him to live with her.

The next step, he figured, was his to take.

Of course, that didn't stop his stomach from flipping, his hands from trembling, and his knees from feeling weak. He took a deep breath as the elevator doors slid open to find her standing there with an expectant look on her face.

"It's about time," she said as she walked into the elevator. "You sent me a message 10 minutes ago and said you'd be right down. I was starting to wonder if you left without me."

"What?" McGee blinked as he felt his heart start to race and his throat grow dry. "No. I was…"

He paused. He was what? Getting a lecture from Tony on the futility of what he was about to do? Being advised he was making the biggest mistake of his life? Cautioned not to ruin the best thing that ever happened to him?

He realized in that panic-stricken moment that there was no way he could go through with his plans for the evening of going to the gallery, taking her to dinner and then proposing at the end of the evening. He put his hand his jacket pocket and felt the box.

Tony offered to hold it for him until later, until more time passed, until the right moment presented itself.

McGee looked at Abby as she hit the button to send the car back upstairs so they could take the front elevator in order to leave through the main lobby. She was adjusting her scarf, the black one with the many skulls adorned with pink bows, as she wrestled agitatedly with the collar of her leather coat. She looked like it had been an annoying afternoon in the lab, and her last round of email to him venting her frustration regarding a software upgrade on her tire pattern recognition program seemed to confirm that.

If there was one thing McGee had learned in the last year it was the power of timing. Two additional seconds of hesitation in pulling his Sig in the Comm Center in Afghanistan would have resulted in his death. Five minutes in delaying his entry into tent would have saved him from getting shot all together. It was all so random. No amount of planning could save you from disaster somedays. It all boiled down to this he realized: All you could do was keep your wits about you and make the best choice possible in any moment. Sometimes it was best to charge; sometimes it was best to run and hide.

He sighed as a feeling of calm settled into his bones as the best choice, the only choice, for that moment came to him as the elevator continued to rise.

"Are you okay?" Abby asked as she turned her sights on him as she heard his sigh.

Rather than answer, he flipped the emergency stop switch on the elevator.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

Gibbs focused his attention to the report McGee left on his desk. The trail for Lt. Cmdr Scott was understandably still cold. He disappeared more than 90 days prior to NCIS receiving the report. The details in his commanding officer's report were sketchy and unhelpful. The team actually looking for him—one based out of Coronado from the San Diego Field Office—were stumped and not placing a high priority on following up on details since Scott was not flagged as someone of great interest. Sailors went missing from time to time. He was considered one of the roaming band that would eventually turn up so little effort was being placed on finding him.

The agent out of the Navy Yard had a different take on it.

McGee, it appeared, determined that it was likely Scott left of his own volition. From the lengthy explanation struggling to lay out that theory with every ounce of logic spoke of more than a thorough investigator behind the words. It also wreaked of a friend desperate not to accept something more sinister in the disappearance.

As for his vanishing act, McGee concluded his friend's reasons did not appear to be financially motivated. His bank accounts were roughly what one would expect from someone at his pay grade. His spending habits were predictable. There was no steady girlfriend in the picture and no hints at other social associations that might prompt him to stray from his chosen career. His latest health and fitness reports were clean and, until he dropped out of sight, there were no disciplinary issues on his record. From what Gibbs could determine, McGee was attempting to reconstruct the week prior to the disappearance using bank card purchases, entry and exits on the base at Coronado, and keystroke logs (still compiling with his various programs) of all of his online activity. Gibbs shook his head, amazed yet again at the things his studious agent could pull together without leaving his desk.

He sighed, wondering when he was going to get the chance to start refreshing McGee's abilities in the real world of investigation. He did not have time to dwell on that long when Abby's voice called to him from far down the back hallway, growing stronger and louder with each second. Gibbs rose from his desk at her approach.

"Gibbs, Gibbs, Gibbs!" she shouted as she ran into the room, dragging McGee by the hand.

As she drew closer to Gibbs, she let go of McGee's hand and threw her arms around the veteran agent's neck to hug him.

"You'll never guess what just happened," she yelped.

"McGee proposed to you," Gibbs said returning the embrace.

"Yes!" she replied. "In the elevator! Isn't that exciting and surprising?"

Gibbs gave her a soft peck on the cheek while congratulating her as she continued to bounce cheerfully while hugging him. McGee smirked, looking more relaxed and less nauseous than when he left several minute earlier.

"Yeah, it's unexpected," Tony grimaced and swatted McGee's arm. "The elevator? What's the matter with you? That was your big surprise? Okay, McBoring. That lacks all sense of romance. You should have asked me for a better set up than that."

McGee gritted his teeth and glared at his partner.

"It wasn't my plan, but since we were going to walk through this room and you just gave me the world's worst pep talk, I doubted you could shut your mouth long enough for us to get out of here without you tipping her off," McGee asserted.

"So you did that on the fly?" Tony remarked as he shook his head pityingly. "Oh, McPanic. You obviously are not ready for this."

While Tony sighed his condolences, Gibbs held out his hand and shook McGee's.

"Elevators," Gibbs nodded. "Never underestimate their power."

McGee grinned in a tired but giddy way as he finally felt like his heart was calming down and he could take a normal breath.

"I didn't see a point in waiting to find a perfect time or an ideal place," he shrugged. "What mattered was asking. So, I improvised. It worked."

"You at least turned the elevator off and got down on one knee, right?" Tony ventured quietly to the side.

"Of course," McGee nodded.

"Okay," Tony nodded while offering a fist bump of pride. "That's… actually not so bad. Spur of the moment. Captive audience. Non-distracting setting with traditional genuflecting pose. Okay. I see how that could work in a geeky and uncreative way. I'm guessing since she's hugging Gibbs that she said yes."

"Of course, I did!" Abby cheered and flashed her ring toward him then muckled onto Tony to give a crushing hug. "I was so surprised. I mean, I knew he was going to ask at some point. We've talked about it, but I never thought he would ask tonight."

"I'm happy for you, Abs," Tony said with a pained grin due to her tight grip. "I'm worried about your sanity, but I'm happy that you're happy. Ow."

His head snapped forward as McGee instinctively snapped him in the back of the head. Both men stared at each other with wide, surprised eyes. Whether McGee was more surprised that he slapped Tony or Tony was more surprised that McGee did it, was not clear. They merely stared at each other looking for the elusive answer until Abby broke between them.

"I am happy," she squealed then latched onto McGee's arm again and kissed his cheek. "I need like a whole new word to describe how this feels… but I can't think of one other than _wow_."

Tony was ready to offer up another tart and (in his mind) humorous observation but stopped as he looked at the couple. There was a split second when they looked at each other that made his heart sink. It wasn't worry for them or any hint of trouble. It was sadness for himself because he did not know what it was like to feel precisely that way, although he wanted to. For that moment, in a single glance that seemed both precious yet normal for them, it was as if the rest of the world did not exist. There was such contentment, peace even, and giddy passion in their eyes for each other. Tony actually felt like he was intruding as he saw it. He also felt a bit jealous. They had found comfort and security with each other and were about to make it permanent.

"Congrats, Abby," Tony said and received another quick brusque hug from her. He gave McGee an apologetic glance then held out his hand. McGee raised his to shake but was denied as Tony pulled him into a rough hug and received a thump on the back.

"My little probie's all grown up," he said as though he was choked up then roughly ruffled McGee's hair. "So, I'm your best man, right?"

"I just got engaged two minutes ago," McGee said.

"Hey, that part is done so stop living in the past," Tony said throwing his arm over McGee's shoulders. "Now, name me best man, and you can start thinking about the fun part."

"The wedding?" Abby ventured. Tony shook his head and grinned at McGee.

"The honeymoon?" McGee guess and earned a large smile from Abby. However, Tony groaned and hung his head.

"The bachelor party," he crowed. "I happen to give the best bachelor parties."

"No," McGee shook his head as he wormed out of Tony's clutch and put his hand on the small of Abby's back and started to usher her out of the room.

"Oh yeah," Tony trailed after them, pleading his case for appointment to the wedding party. "I'm thinking a weekend in Vegas. I know a guy at Caesar's who can get it set up for us. I'll call him and put him on notice since he owes me a favor. Hey, you got any objections to my Dad joining us? He likes to tell me somedays that you're his favorite son. I mean, he only says it when I start questioning him about his credit card bills, but the point is he's got connections in Vegas, too."

McGee merely pushed Tony gently from the elevator as he attempted to follow them further.

"Good night, Tony," McGee said flatly as the door began to close.

"Okay, good talk, think about some dates," he said then leered. "Hey, no celebrating in the elevator. The boss still uses it for serious business."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Abby and McGee's House_**

Abby stretched beneath the sheets as a pale shaft of moonlight trickled into their bedroom through a sliver gap in the curtains. The wind still rattled at the windows as leaves whipped about the yard on the gusty night. She sighed contentedly as she lay comfortably in McGee's arms as she lifted her hand to stare at the ring adorning her left hand.

"I feel over dressed," she chuckled.

"You're not wearing anything other than your ring," he noted. "How is that overdressed?"

She twisted under the sheets so that she was facing him and smirked at his dumbfounded expression.

"You sound very casual and confident," she remarked narrowing her eyes curiously. "How many women have you had in your bed wearing just diamonds?"

"Uh, let me think," he replied.

"You need to think?" she questioned.

"Well, yeah," McGee replied. "Do earrings count?"

Abby smiled then ruffled her fingers through his hair before planting a deep kiss squarely on his lips.

"I love how detail oriented you can be," she replied. "Well, earrings or toe rings or nose rings or any form of jewelry aside, this diamond-wearing woman is the last one who will ever share bed space, or couch space, or cot space, or any sleeping space with you."

"That was very precise," McGee grinned. "You really think there was a chance that I would want anyone else to do that?"

"I just wanted you to understand how adamant I am that you are mine," she said. "So, when are you going to tell your mom and your sister? Or do they already know you were going to propose tonight?"

"Only Gibbs and Tony knew, and that was unintentional," McGee said as he craned his neck to look at the alarm clock. "I'll call my mother and Penny tomorrow… or I guess today once the sun is up. I thought you could join me when I have lunch with Sarah on Sunday and we could tell her together. I know you usually go to help out Sister Rosita, but maybe just this once…"

"Do you think Sarah will be my maid of honor?" Abby asked. "I want her to know that I'm not taking you away from your family and that she's welcome here anytime. I think making her part of the wedding will reassure her."

McGee sighed and brushed her hair from her face as he smiled contentedly.

"Abby, she likes you more than me lately," he remarked. "Whatever was going on between the two of you a while ago is over. She's not worrying that you'll kick her out of my world or hold me hostage."

She grinned happily then snapped her fingers.

"Hostage, eh?" she smirked and began looking toward the nightstand. "I never thought of locking you up to have you to myself. Where are your cuffs?"

"They're where they belong: at the office, far from you and your… ideas," he replied although there was a glint in his eye that hinted at some disappointment.

"This time," Abby giggled. "So, I know we were in a rush to get out of the office, but you really shouldn't leave Tony hanging thinking he's not your best man. I know you and he have this while juvenile thing you like to do and squabble like bratty little schoolkids, but I think it would be best if he knew you had picked him as your best man so we can start planning. After all, we have a schedule to keep. Well, first to make, then to keep."

"There's plenty of time for that," McGee remarked.

Abby stroked her finger through his hair then placed her hand over the mighty scar on his chest.

"The last year taught me that putting things off and hoping for a perfect moment is too risky," she said thoughtfully. "Remember what happened with Jimmy's wedding? I've been thinking about this since you put this ring on my finger. Timmy, I can't think of a single reason for us to wait, can you?"

"Well, no," he agreed. "But it's not like we're getting married next weekend."

"Why not?" she asked. "I was just saying to Tony today how everything is so slow lately. This is a good time. It's before the holidays when everyone is so busy. There's no chance of snow grounding planes so your mother can make it. I say we do this. No waiting."

"What?" McGee blinked.

"You don't think so?" she asked. "I don't need a big gala wedding that takes a year to plan and save money to pay for. Do you?"

"Uh, no," he shook his head.

"So just family and close friends—nearly everyone is right here right now," Abby encouraged.

"Okay, but I want my mother and Penny there," McGee insisted. "My mom can probably get here without much notice, but Penny's still traveling."

Abby sighed contentedly as she traced her finger along his jawline.

"Okay, well it doesn't have to be next weekend, but we should find out when people are available and just do it soon," Abby said. "Agreed?"

"It's a lot to plan and not much time to do it," he replied surprised and on the verge of worry. "We just got engaged a few hours ago. I hadn't thought much beyond what I would say to give you the ring."

She nodded confidently as she fixed him with a wide and eager grin.

"I am freaky good at wedding planning," she said. "There's nothing to it when you boil it down to a science. Scope, venue, invitations. That's all there is to it. Leave it to me. Besides, you're working on your super-secret squirrel project for Gibbs."

McGee scoffed and shook his head as he, regretfully, needed to once again deny her any information about his assignment from Gibbs. He did not like withholding information, but Gibbs said no one else was to know. There was no exception carved out for teammates, roommates, colleagues or fiancées.

"I can't talk about that, Abby," he reminded her, wishing deeply he could.

Thus far, he found a lot of false trails (and needed to create a few of his own to hide his searches), but nothing seemed to lead anywhere to Carter Scott. The information surrounding his disappearance was sketchy and had McGee worried. For no apparent reason, a dedicated and decorated veteran just walked out of his barracks one night and seemed to disappear into thin air. If not for the stray clues he did unearth, McGee would have feared his friend was dead. What made him bolt and where he might be going were just as troubling as there seemed no answer to those yet.

"I know," Abby reassured him. "I'm saying you don't need to pull yourself away from whatever it is Gibbs has you researching. I'm saying I've got this. Let me see what I can pull together and you can tell me if you're game for it."

"Game?" McGee wondered with a raised eyebrow. "It's not going to involve either helmets or the zoo is it?"

When she grinned wickedly for a second, he blanched with a touch of fear but then blushed at his gullibility the next second as she laughed and made a comment about him getting cold feet.

"We've had enough excitement for one year so I'm thinking something simple, quiet, and low key," she promised. "Nothing to cause pointless delays. Tim, I know we're a _you and me_ already, but now that we've decided to do this, I don't want to wait another year to start our lives as a legal _we_. I don't need some expensive fairy tale venue. I'll marry you in the copier room on the second floor if that's the only place available. Honey, we've already lost enough time trying to figure out we want to be together."

McGee pressed his forehead to hers and smiled. He could not have agreed more. He planned on showing her that when she derailed his intentions.

"Now, let Tony know he's your best man," she insisted.

"Now?" McGee whined.

She yawned strategically and grinned widely at him, prompting a sigh before he reluctantly reached for his cellphone. It was resting, facedown, on the nightstand and set to silent mode. He did not normally do that, but he was determined that there would be no interruptions for them that evening. As he swiped the screen, he saw that it was a wise tactic as a series of text notifications filled the screen, all from one person.

"Unbelievable," McGee scoffed as he began clearing the messages, which drew Abby's attention. "These are all from Tony. He appears to be text-singing. I think it's the theme to Scooby-Do with a few words changed."

"Let me see," Abby said, worming under his arm and resting her head on his chest to take a look at the string. " _McGoo, McGoo, McGoo, where you? I need a text from you now._ Uh, yeah. He's lonely and needs to hear from you—he comes right out and says it. You should call him."

"At 2 a.m.?" McGee yawned. "He sent these at 11:30. He was probably just getting in from a movie and was bored before going to bed and thought he'd intrude on our evening at both the beginning and the end. I'm not calling him while I'm in bed with you."

"I could go downstairs if you need some alone time with him," she challenged with a smirk. "Tim, just send him a text let him know you got those and that he's your best man. Come on. He's your friend."

"He's my friendly torturer," McGee scoffed.

"He's your best friend," she said forcefully.

"I thought that was you," he remarked and smiled as she scowled in his victory but eased up a bit. "Fine, he's _one_ of my best friends. I'm still allowed a break from being his target. I know Tony has certain juvenile needs, and my job is to weather them in order to keep his ego sufficiently inflated so he can get through the day, but I draw the line at opening myself up to him grilling me about what happened after we left the office and whether we christened the elevator."

Abby offered him a frank expression that quickly shelved his resistance. Her relationship with Tony was stridently different than McGee's. He suspected they both loved the guy in their own ways, it was hard not to. Kate was right years earlier when she referred to him as an x-rated Peter Pan. So, with a sigh of resignation, McGee tapped a few letters into message then hit send. He fully intended to put the phone back on the stand and go to sleep, but it flashed to life with an incoming call almost instantly.

"For the record, I regret answering this," McGee gnashed his teeth before activating the device in speakerphone mode. "Tony?"

"McLordOfTheRing," Tony's voice boomed over the line sounded wide awake, inquisitive, and out of breath. "How goes it, partner? Good evening or did you need a shoulder to cry on? I'm guessing it's more one than the other since you're texting me for company after 2 a.m."

McGee turned his head and looked knowingly and maddeningly at Abby who shrugged apologetically as she bit her knuckle.

"Everything's fine," McGee replied. "I sent you the message so that you didn't spend the weekend planning to suck up to me next week just so you can be named my best man. Well, that and your messages just sounded desperately lonely. It was suggested that I should check in to see if you were okay."

"Okay?" Tony crowed breathlessly. "I am so much better than okay. Do you know what my TV can do now? I found this amazing game that's like Candy Crush, but you play against others using your remote and it acts like a hand device on a Wii. This is amazing. I just got this whole cardio mixed with jujitsu sort of workout. Actually, I think I should stop now. I may have pulled something on that last lunge to get the extra points."

"Lunge?" McGee repeated. "You're lunging to score points?"

"Hey, every little bit helps," he huffed in a tired fashion. "You'll thank me for that little tidbit of insight later. After all, Miss Scuito is a woman who knows about the wild side."

"Uh, Tony," McGee attempted to interrupt but found his mouth covered by Abby's hand as she shook her head forbidding him to speak.

"I mean it, Tim," Tony continued. "If you want to keep her happy, you're going to have to do more than you did in the past, which I think the record shows wasn't much. You gotta up your game, McLover. Bring something new something she hasn't seen or done before. Good luck on that."

Abby's huff, entertained more than insulted, sounded loudly in the room and struck the voice on the phone silent.

"And just what do you think wouldn't be new to me, Tony?" she asked.

There was a pregnant pause while Abby stared at the phone and McGee bit his lip to keep from guffawing. It had taken the entire time he had known both his fiancée and his partner for this to happen, but finally, FINALLY, Tony got caught being… well, Tony to him in front of Abby. While getting engaged was still McGee's favorite part of the previous 24 hours, this moment was a not too distant second.

"Abby?" Tony asked hesitantly. "McGee, you couldn't tell me she was in the room?"

"Timmy can't talk right now," she said as she kept a hand over his mouth. "So, what was that you were saying about my wild side?"

"Figure of speech, Abs," Tony chuckled nervously. "Just jerking your McBoyToy… Sorry, your McFiancé around a bit. Keeping him on his toes for you, you know, making sure he doesn't take you for granted and become boring. It's just what a best man is supposed to do. Isn't it?"

Both McGee and Abby heard the desperation and guilt in Tony's voice. Their grins at his awkwardness and discomfort were identical but had polar opposite foundations. Abby thought it was cute he felt so embarrassed at getting caught. McGee appreciated the fear in his voice as he realized he was busted.

"Uh huh," she said. "What is it that you think I would find boring?"

"Oh, well, you know," Tony struggled. "Uh… Hey, did you see the time? Is it really that late? Wow. I can't believe McGee called me at this hour when he's obviously spending time with you. That's a little insensitive of him. I'll definitely talk to him about that on Monday. If that's…. Um… That's… that's… Okay. How much trouble am I in with you right now, Abby?"

"None," she relented as she chuckled warmly. "You're lucky. I had a fabulous evening. Nothing is going to change my mood."

"Oh, thank god," Tony muttered. "I mean, hey, that's great you two had fun. But seriously, are you sure you want to marry McGee? What's that about? And telling Gibbs you were planning this? Gibbs and marriage is like putting a curse on the nuptials before it happens. Are you two nuts?"

"Keeping secrets from Gibbs is always a bad idea," Abby remarked.

"Valid point," Tony noted. "Congratulations again. I don't want to know what you and McGeek did once you left the office, especially if it makes you use the word fabulous to describe it."

"Oh Tony," Abby cooed seductively. "It was cosmic."

She disconnected before he could react or respond. McGee retrieved his phone from her fingers and shook his head as she cuddled close to him again.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Muddy Waters Café_**

 ** _Georgetown_**

Sunday's did not usually find Gibbs far from home. They usually found him in the basement, but when duty called he answered.

In this instance, the duty was unofficial and the target of his duty was a lawyer who did not seem to be keeping up his end of the bargain. Gibbs tracked Parsons to his normal Sunday spot and cornered him in a booth.

"I take it you're not here to try the egg white omelet," Parsons quipped as Gibbs slid into the booth seat opposite him while wearing a scowl. "Allow me to let you in on how an above-board investigation—one that doesn't end up on OIG's radar for possible misconduct—goes. You do a lot of research. You do a lot of writing down of ideas and possibilities. You do a lot of planning and you do a lot of waiting. When the matter is politically sensitive and could compromise national security, it moves glacially slow. I will let you know as soon as there is progress worth reporting."

"Like whether you've found Carter Scott?" Gibbs asked with a strategic chuckle. "I'm betting my guy finds him before yours. Of course, that might be because your guy has spent too much time watching my guy, thinking he's a lead. You're smarter than this, Richard."

Parsons face grew stony as he put down his fork and sighed. He leaned his elbows on the table and offered Gibbs a frank expression.

"As I said, by the books investigations turn over every rock but we do it in a methodical fashion," he explained. "What I have now confirms, beyond a reasonable doubt, that the McGee family—those ilvign and deceased—are above reproach in every angle of this investigation.'

"You knew that before you started," Gibbs charged. "John McGee was a four-star admiral and the top candidate on a short list to be the Secretary of Defense before he went on terminal medical leave. He was vetted all the way back to his kindergarten transcripts. The guy was a pompous ass and a severely lacking father, but he never took a wrong step in his career or the White House and Department of Defense wouldn't have considered him."

Parsons nodded then sipped his coffee. The café was moderately busy and, in other circumstances, he would have worried about the wisdom of having this discussion in a public place. However, this was Gibbs. If there was one thing Parsons knew for certain about the man it was his ability to pick the right place and right time for effective action.

"All true," Parsons nodded. "That is in my report. As I said, no stone unturned, but also concrete admissible evidence to show as much. You can let Agent McGee know he no longer has to worry anyone will question his rather large purchase two weeks ago at Charleston Alexander in Alexandria. I do hope Ms. Scuito said yes considering what he paid for the ring."

Gibbs' mouth became a hard flat line. He liked Parsons—now at least. He understood the man was doing what the thought was right, but sometimes that apparently meant not sharing necessary knowledge. His compulsion to do everything by the book reminded Gibbs a bit of McGee when he truly was a probie. Thankfully, he learned more effective (and still passably legal) ways to get the job done with less formality and less time spent.

"He doesn't know where Carter Scott is, but what I want to know is why you were looking for him if you're so convinced that our inquiry into that cold case is irrelevant," Gibbs inquired.

"Your cold case is irrelevant," Parsons insisted. "Lt. Commander Scott is someone of interest in another part of this investigation—one I am not at liberty to discuss. Before you start giving me the Medusa stare and trying to make me crumble, I'll tell you this much: He's not a suspect. He's a material witness. Granted, his knowledge is about something for which the statute of limitations ran out long ago, but his knowledge is still useful in giving me the leverage I need to deal appropriately with a more recent heinous act. You can let McGee know he doesn't need to fear his friend was the victim of foul play. The man ran, Gibbs, and I'm sorry to say that is my fault. I moved too quickly and I scared him."

"You scared a Navy SEAL?" Gibbs questioned. "How? You just said he wasn't a suspect."

"He isn't," Parsons said. "He was originally a victim and that's all I'll say about it until I speak to Lt. Commander Scott in person."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

McGee arrived for work in a chipper mood. His weekend had been oddly relaxing and laid back considering how it began. Abby had commandeered the coffee table in the living room to begin her planning. Penny spoke to them over the phone and announced she was catching the first flight back so that she would be no further than Bethesda on whatever date in the near future they chose. Sarah was pleased to be asked to be the maid of honor but was disappointed the wedding would be small. Her spirits only perked up when she was told she could choose whatever dress she wanted. Abby's brothers were ecstatic and vowed both would be there. Luca was especially pleased he would not be asked to give his sister away as crowds of any size made him nervous. Kyle was exceptionally pleased with the timing of the upcoming nuptials as he had recently joined United Planet, an organization similar to the Peace Corps but that did not require a 27 month commitment to living abroad. He was scheduled to leave for his 11 month stint in Burkina Faso just after Thanksgiving.

McGee's mother offered the first moments of less than total happiness and excitement regarding his engagement. After several minutes of hard questioning about whether he was rushing into this, she finally offered a worried but sincere congratulations over speaker phone and reached an agreement with Abby on the date. McGee thought that was the end of his mother's involvement in the planning until she called back that evening stating she had taken the liberty of arranging the officiant for the ceremony. McGee agreed without thinking then spent several tense minutes apologetically explaining the intrusion to Abby and getting her to agree to it.

After that, Abby tapped into what she cryptically called her secret planning weapon and secured a location and began working on the other arrangements. McGee respected the efficiency with which she tackled this task but saw it merely as another use for her forensic skills. She analyzed the needs; she synthesized solutions. While she did that, he was left with some covert planning of his own. Two out-of-ear-shot calls and a dozen more deleted text messages later and his part of the planning was complete.

Therefore, with the only that one rough patch involving his mother now sufficiently smoothed over, he went to work with a clear head and a bright outlook for the coming days. He sat at his desk with a slight grin on his face as Tony arrived for the day. Upon seeing McGee, he strode confidently to his partner's desk and gestured to his phone.

"Check your annual leave, McGroom," Tony bellowed. "We are finding a weekend to hit Vegas."

"No," McGee shook his head. "Not interested. You can be my best man, but I'm not going to Las Vegas for a bachelor party."

"Yeah, you are," Tony insisted. "It really is the best place for it. The trick is to time it just right and give you one last big hurrah. Actually, in your case it'll double also as your first hurrah, before you enter that bitter and boring wasteland that is known as the monogamy of married life. I figure we aim for three months before the wedding. It's a tried and true formula. See, with that much leeway, you have time to fully recover, do a thorough sweep to destroy all evidence, buy Abby sufficiently persuasive apology gifts and…"

"The wedding is in two weeks," McGee announced. "It's not a formal affair so Abby started and finished the planning yesterday evening. I verified with the hotline that Gibbs' team is not on call that weekend so that's taken care of as well. No time for Vegas. No interest either, but the timing thing is where I'll end this discussion."

"Two weeks?" Tony gaped. "No. You just got engaged yesterday!"

"We got engaged last week," McGee corrected him.

"Getting married just weeks after the engagement is… unacceptable," Tony fumed. "That's what foreigners do to get a green card. Neither you nor Abby need those. Oh, and you have nearly no time off on the books after being gone from… you know… the…."

"Getting shot," McGee offered without feeling any sense of fear or stress.

Tony grimaced and he offered an apologetic wince.

"Yeah, that, sorry," he said quietly then cleared his throat and spoke more loudly. "But my point is that you're burning what you've got left to take your little trip to bayou country around the holidays. How do you plan to take time off to go to Tahiti in two weeks?"

"Why would I go to Tahiti?" McGee asked mystified.

"Honeymoon, McVirgin," Tony scoffed and shook his head. "Tahiti, Paris, Rome, Curaçao, or wherever you are jetting off to after the _I do_ 's are done."

McGee shook his head and focused instead on his screen as it reported back his latest scrapes of not-precisely-legal peaks at the millions of faces caught on NSA cameras around the country and the results of running facial recognition software against those images in search of a missing SEAL. While doing something illegal in the form of hacking was not new to him, he still needed justification for himself. Although it appeared Carter was behaving like a fugitive, McGee refused to believe his friend was walking on the wrong side of the law. Finding him, he decided, was a way of helping him and (possibly) rescuing him from whatever he was hiding from—and that something was the problem, not his friend.

Or so he hoped.

But doing that while putting up with Tony's harangue was not easy.

"Abby and I aren't going a honeymoon right off," he informed Tony. "The wedding will be on Friday night, and we're going to work like normal on Monday. Since we already have plans to go to New Orleans to see Abby's family around Christmas that will be our honeymoon."

Tony scoffed and shook his head pityingly. He knelt down beside McGee's desk and speared him with a superior look.

"The Big Easy," Tony nodded. "It's fair, but not wildly exotic particularly since that's her hometown. For a vacation, it's fine but not for something like this. Trade in those plane tickets for something better, probie. Trust me. Family holidays and honeymoons do not mix."

McGee stared flatly at him as he noted, with frustration, that his search turned up no solid results yet again.

"And you know this from your extensive experience with both?" he wondered.

Tony winced at the tart observation. He stood up abruptly then sat on the edge of McGee's desk. He lowered his voice and folded his arms as he gave McGee a look of concern.

"Tell me what's really going on," he said in a conspiratorial tone. "What's with the rush to the altar? Weddings take a year or more to plan usually. Most people drag out saying the 'I do's' forever usually."

"We're not most people," McGee replied.

"I know that, but you are also not those kind of people—the kind that meet on a Thursday and marry on Friday," Tony said. "As your best man, I must be privy to all details. I'm like the wedding bodyguard."

McGee shook his head, regretting slightly his decision to offer Tony a spot in the wedding. In truth, there was no one else he would consider as his best man, but that didn't mean he would enjoy Tony's participation entirely.

"Actually" McGee offered, "you're more like the guy who makes sure my sister doesn't pick a fight with anyone at the wedding so I can have the night off from that job, and you're the guy gives a toast. Of course, now that I think about that, asking you to be the best man seems like a bad idea. I'm reconsidering your role in our wedding. I think maybe I should ask the original Tony DiNozzo, your father, and should reconsider even inviting you at all."

Tony scoffed and put a phony smile on his face as he jabbed McGee in the shoulder in a jocular fashion.

"Okay, I get it," he shrugged relented. "I do make fun of you from time to time, but do you really think taking away my rightfully earned title of best man will improve your chances that I won't be my witty and observant self at your wedding? Come on, McGoo. You're normally smarter than that."

When McGee suddenly grinned, Tony's expression went blank and caused him to look over his shoulder, expecting Gibbs palm to be dangerously close to his head, but he found the air space around them decidedly vacant of bosses. He threw a questioning jut of his chin toward the groom-to-be.

"I just realized that my mother and grandmother will be there to supervise both you and Sarah," he beamed. "They'll listening to your every word with rapt attention. Mom and Penny might even want to pre-approve whatever you say. I'll have my mother call you so she can let you know her expectations. Maybe Penny can have lunch with you early next week to talk about decorum and manners."

Tony blinked then swallowed hard. That, he told himself as he shook his head, was a hurdle for another conversation. The women of the McGee clan were a bit too feisty for him to handle en masse.

"Stop changing the subject," he demanded. "Tell me why you and Abby are taking the express lane. I'm serious, Tim. What's going on? Is everything okay?"

His expression was sincere—as sincere as Tony got early in the morning when he was prowling for something to keep him occupied until Gibbs arrived or a felony landed the team in the field.

"Hard to believe, but it's Abby's idea," McGee reported. "She doesn't want to wait. She wants to get married sooner rather than later, and while it surprised me, I have no objections to it."

As he spoke, his phone chirped signaling he had a message. He swiped the screen and read the text then smiled widely. His surprise for the wedding was now confirmed. He and Abby had agreed not to give each other gifts (in fact, they were going to request no one give them gifts), but that did not mean he could not arrange a surprise for her.

"Why are you smiling?" Tony inquired then gasped and pointed at McGee while nodding knowingly. "Oh wow. Is there a McBun in the oven?"

McGee leveled a flat gaze at him then returned to his computer with a scowl.

"I'm not going to dignify that with a response," he shook his head.

"There is, isn't there?" Tony gaped. "It explains everything. Out of the blue proposal…"

"We've been discussing getting married for a while," McGee said.

"Getting Gibbs' blessing, aka, he found out and made you do the right thing," Tony continued.

"Actually, Gibbs joked with Abby about an engagement," McGee said in a bored tone. "I was just a bystander."

"And now, the rush to the altar," Tony summarized still ignoring McGee's explanations. "I haven't begun to notice the telltale signs yet, but obviously that secret will be out of the bag soon. Didn't keep your little Probie tadpoles from swimming upstream, did you? I knew I should have had the talk with you. You know, just reading about safe sex is not the way to learn the proper…"

"Abby is not pregnant!" McGee snarled loudly and gained the attention of all eyes in the room.

He seethed quietly at his desk as he glared at Tony. He lowered his voice as he addressed his partner again.

"We are not rushing to the altar," McGee clenched his teeth. "She just doesn't see any reason for a long engagement nor do I. We are getting married at the Adam's House, in the Hayes Room on the mezzanine level, at 7 p.m. a week from this coming Friday. Be there half an hour before the ceremony and let Abby know by Thursday if you're bringing Zoe or not."

"No wardrobe requirements?" Tony asked striking his Sean Connery as James Bond pose.

"It's not clothing optional," McGee replied flatly, his face still red from Tony's needling. "No one is wearing a tux so if you feel insecure and need to make a spectacle of yourself by standing out, by all means do so."

"You're serious?" Tony inquired. "No tuxedos? No fussy bowties that have to match the bridesmaids… Hey, who is the maid of honor?"

He grinned salaciously, which raised a wave of red on McGee's face.

"My sister," McGee growled as Tony licked his finger then ran it over his eyebrows while purring like a lion. "That's it. I'm withdrawing my offer for you to be the best man and I'm not allowing anyone named DiNozzo at the wedding."

"No, hey, stop that," Tony chuckled and slouched apologetically as he jostled McGee's shoulder. "Come on. You know I'm joking. Twisted Sister is Abby's lieutenant? That's nice. A family affair. Only makes sense that I stand up for you. I'll be a gentleman. I will. So the ceremony and reception is at the hotel?"

"Yes," McGee said still slightly peeved. "It's just a small gathering with champagne, hors d'oeuvres and cake. Since it's a Friday night, it won't be long and no one needs to lose their weekend to attend."

"Isn't Abby Catholic?" Tony wondered. "Is that why you're not going the church route, because of the baby?"

McGee gritted his teeth but ignored the comment mostly

"She is Catholic, and technically so is my family, but religion isn't my thing and neither of us are huge fans of all their doctrine so there was no point in booking a church," he explained. "My mother arranged for Uncle Warren to officiate. The date conveniently works for him since his sails for the Med that following Monday, and Abby is not pregnant."

"Uncle Warren?" Tony questioned. "Your mother has no siblings and neither did your father. Where are you getting uncles? Is this another family secret? I thought we talked about this, McGee. Secrets are bad… and rude to keep."

"He's not legally our uncle, that's just what Sarah and I have always called him," McGee said. "He and my father were close friends for as long as I can remember. He's like family."

"A friend of your father's?" Tony repeated as he narrowed his gaze. "Your father had no friends other than people in the Navy, people who run the Pentagon, and people who currently run or previously ran the White House. How does that include a priest?"

"He's not a priest," McGee explained as he continued typing. "He's a chaplain."

"A Navy chaplain whose ship leaves for the Med on Monday?" Tony questioned then paused. "The Nimitz leaves Norfolk for the Med on Monday. Does Uncle Warren have a last name? Oh god, it's Curtis, isn't it? You have Rear Admiral Warren Curtis, Chief of Chaplains for the entire US Navy, conducting your wedding? The highest ranking religious official in the Navy is getting you hitched? It's a lot of brass for a low key ceremony, isn't it?"

McGee sighed and felt his embarrassment rise. He had no issue with Admiral Curtis officiating—he was touched by the man's offer. What bothered him was how it came about. McGee's mother, needing to exert some control on the swiftly approaching wedding, took care of that aspect of the ceremony. It wasn't precisely what Abby wanted, but McGee was grateful she gave in to his mother's demand without any raised voices or deeply hurt feelings.

"My mother arranged it," McGee explained. "He was happy to participate."

"I forget sometimes that you come from the equivalent of Navy royalty," Tony remarked. "Two generations of McGee admirals."

"Two consecutive generations," McGee corrected him. "There are actually four admirals and one commodore in my family's history."

"Right," Tony nodded then smirked. "And then there's you. The Elf Lord. Distinguished lineage for the baby Abby's not carrying."

"For the last time, Tony," McGee sighed. "This is not a shotgun wedding. She's not pregnant."

Tony leaned closer and lowered his voice again as he offered McGee a frank and knowing expression.

"As far as you know," he taunted. "What I've learned from you so far is that she's the one who rushed the wedding plans. Maybe the reasons she gave you were a cover, a rouse, a diversion. She might have information about a mini-McGee that she's holding back until she knows you're not going to panic and flee from taking the vows. Think about it, McDaddy."

McGee gave him a suffering look but shook his head. He knew Tony was just trying to spin him up for his own juvenile pleasure. If Tony truly believed his outlandish theory, he would start nosing around Abby, looking for information to prove the theory. McGee grinned at that. His fiancée would eat Tony for lunch once she figured out what he was doing.

"Since you're so interested in this, as my best man, you should look into it further," McGee said dismissing him. "You go find out the truth and let me know."

McGee then turned back to his computer. Tony might get a kick out of pushing his buttons, but he would rue the day he did so to Abby. As if sensing the danger, Tony's smirk died on his face and he returned to his desk and dropped the subject entirely.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 **Director's Office**

Vance rocked back hard in his chair as his eyes bulged at Gibbs. His toothpick, the one he had proclaimed he kicked once again, was clenched tight in his teeth as the muscles in his neck corded.

"He said victim and material witness?" he questioned. "You believe him?"

"No reason not to," Gibbs shrugged. "Parsons is being tightlipped. He's got something more that we don't know about yet. Statute of limitations is a pretty vague clue. Whatever it is, it ran out for Lt. Commander Scott, but there's still a viable case out there he can help with."

Vance snorted and sat forward aggressively in his seat. He shook his head and glared at Gibbs.

"This was supposed to be a closed case about a shooting in Afghanistan," he charged. "How did we end up here? Or, let me rephrase, where the hell are we now?"

Gibbs shrugged. The case was pretty loose around the edges, but the picture was clearer to him now than it had been in a while. Vance was thinking about money and resources as much as political blowback. Gibbs was thinking about justice.

"It's pretty simple, Leon," he explained. "Forget the ranks involved. We've got drug runners who operate under a long established cloak of secrecy. Back in April, part of their operation got compromised when a contractor found a glitch in some computer thing that short changed the government. We got an anonymous tip to start digging. NCIS was looking into the computer problem as a security issue only our traffickers didn't know that. They thought their 30 year-old business was about to be discovered so they put out a hit—it's what a cartel does to take down threats to business."

Vance nodded, warming to the explanation.

"Only they jumped the gun because all we would have found was a faulty computer program that didn't do proper cross referencing of data on background security checks," Vance added. "The problem in the program let the traffickers get their mules into the camp, but you're saying that was just a lucky break."

Gibbs nodded. The simplest solutions were usually the right ones.

"So all hell breaks loose, and we bring in more sets of eyes than they wanted because their shooters messed up," Vance continued. "They were supposed to take the computer and maybe take out Marrovich since he was part of the chain for the money laundering side. It's a damn miracle we found any of this out at all. If Agent Bishop hadn't gone snooping in pointless records, we'd never have found that old NIS record."

"The one that led us to Porter," Gibbs said. "He's not the head of this thing. He's involved, but someone else is running the show. He got roped in somehow. Maybe it started on that Tiger Cruise. Maybe he was already a part of it."

"You still think he's a threat to McGee?" Vance asked. "Parsons seemed to think he was targeted all along."

Gibbs shrugged. He was of two minds on that. If he took one course, it left McGee as simply collateral damage because he was merely the agent in the room and when those calling the shots thought there secret was busted. If he took the second course, McGee was conveniently targeted by someone in the group who knew another member's weakness. That made his agent merely a pawn in a threat to someone else. When Gibbs explained the theories, Vance had an obvious question.

"I don't follow that," Vance said. "Hurting McGee is leverage on whom?"

Gibbs smiled sourly as he rose and walked to the door, feeling like he'd had this discussion a dozen times before—and he had.

"Admiral Porter," he said. "As for the how, I think that is something only Porter and Carter Scott can tell us."

"You've figured out what Scott is a victim of in his past and how he's a witness to something more recent?" Vance asked.

"So have you," Gibbs replied as he opened the door. "That sick knot in your stomach you want to go away is the same one I've got in my gut telling me to keep digging."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	38. Chapter 38

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Adam's House Hotel_**

 ** _Washington, DC_**

Carol McGee stood nervously at the back of the small cream-colored room. The decorations were minimal but elegant—seasonal flowers, candle arrangements and two dozen chairs. It was lovely in its simplicity she admitted, but that did little to calm her anxiety.

"Perhaps this will help," Anthony DiNozzo, Sr., said offering her a flute of champagne. "I know that look. That is the look of a parent who feels displaced."

Carol sighed and grimaced guiltily.

"Twice this year, my son—my first-born, my gracious and always well-behaved, thoughtful, and blessedly predictable child—has twisted my nerves into a knot so tight they are fraying and on the verge of snapping entirely," she confessed. "I expect impulsive shenanigans from Sarah not from Timothy."

DiNozzo grinned and gently patted her arm.

"I understand how it feels when your son choses a path you're not sure is right," he agreed. "Junior has done that more than once, but I've found that whenever he's been following his heart, it turned out to be the right thing in the end. As parents, we want what's best for them, but sometimes their ideas and ours don't quite match up. I will tell you this, I don't find any part of Tim and Abby getting married to be impetuous. Sudden, perhaps, but not impetuous. He's in love with her, no doubt whatsoever in my mind—or in the mind of anyone else here. And Abby…"

"Yes?" Carol asked with a skeptical twist to her lips. "I think she's a smart and caring woman. I know she's been a dear friend to Timothy for a long time, but I find her abrupt about-face on a relationship with him hard to believe. They broke up years ago because he wanted their relationship to be serious. Now, she has no worries about that?"

DiNozzo shook his head. This, he knew, was the problem with being a parent in an age when it seemed like all the information you could want was right at your fingertips. You thought you always knew the whole story, but it seemed there was usually a lot more to be told. All the email, texts, calls and Facebook posts on the planet did not make up for face-to-face contact.

"I thought I had Junior all figured out and what he wanted and where he was going and why, until I moved to Washington and spent time with him on a regular basis," he explained. "I was certain he and his girlfriend Zoe were a well-matched couple and my thoughts on a previous interest of his was just crossed signals on my part. Now that I see him regularly, I think I had it right when I was visiting in the past. I mention that because I see Tim and Abby in person more than you. I've got a feel for them, if you will. Let me let you in on a little secret, all the spiked collars and wrist cuffs, the tattoos and the pigtails are armor for possibly the sweetest girl I've ever met since my wife. They help her keep some distance between the cold and brutal reality of the work our kids do every day. Those things also give her a tough but whimsical appearance to the rest of the world. But what I've found since getting to know her, is that she is a sweet and worrisome girl who cares a lot for her friends and flat out adores your son beyond description. She doesn't make it easy on him, I'll grant you. She's cautious and needs proof before she'll make big decisions, whether it's on a case or in her life. I think the fact that she's the one who initiated the relationship this time and wanted to move forward with the wedding immediately rather than wait is a sign of how devoted she is to him and how much she wants them to be together."

Carol sighed as she considered the advice. It was much the same thing that her mother-in-law and her daughter told her. Her son simply told her that getting married was the right thing and that she should not worry—as if that was possible.

"I still see no problem with long engagements," Carol said. "Rushing anything is never wise."

"If the poets are right and love knows no seasons or timelines, then what good would waiting do other than delay their happiness?" DiNozzo mused which prompted a relenting smile from Carol. "I actually wish Junior would be as bold as Tim. He never made the leap for the woman he truly loved. Maybe Tim and Abby's happiness will be a good lesson for him."

In a room just down the hall, Abby sat on an elevated chair with her feet dangling just above the floor while waiting for word that everyone necessary had arrived. It had been a nerve-wracking day. She only worked until 10 a.m. That was when her maid of honor had arranged to pick her up and take her to a downtown day spa to get her nails done. Working in the lab, nails were not something Abby bothered with normally. The last thing she needed was to have them puncture one of her latex gloves and either contaminate a sample or breech the protection and get burned (or worse).

But Sarah was insistent. As Abby did not want a bridal shower, they were going to spent a leisurely afternoon getting nails, hair and makeup done so that all she needed to do upon arriving at the hotel was get dressed and be ready to say two short words.

Of course, waiting and sitting still were not Abby's forte. By the time Gibbs arrived an hour before the ceremony and reported the rest of the wedding team was also present, Abby was on hour two of teaching her sister-in-law to be how to play Texas Hold 'Em.

When Gibbs sat in for a few hands and ended up winning them all, the game broke up and the clock watching commenced. When Tony finally breezed into the room wearing a broad grin, Abby was up out of her chair and ready to make her march to the altar but was stopped.

"Okay, slight delay," Tony said as he stepped into the room. "Admiral Curtis is here, but we need to wait another couple minutes. So, you ready for this?"

"Not sure anyone ever is," Gibbs remarked as he stood stiffly near the wall wearing a suit and tie.

Tony blinked upon seeing taking in Abby's choice of clothing. It was far from what he expected. He thought he would see her in some sort of long, 19th century funeral type gown with a lot of black lace and silver bangles, like the voodoo wedding he once observed in New Orleans during Mardi Gras. Instead, she wore a simple white sheath dress with fine black lace overlay skirt. Her hair was pulled up on the sides while the back hung down in curling tendrils. There was no black lipstick or heavily mascaraed eyes. The only jewelry in sight was her ring and two small diamond studs in her ears.

"So you're dressed and ready to roll," he grinned then winked at Abby. "You do the old, new, borrowed, blue bit?"

"I insisted," Sarah proclaimed as she adjusted one of the curls in Abby's hair. "Dress—new. Old and borrowed—Penny's earrings. A sixpence for her shoe from Ducky."

"What about the blue?" Tony asked.

"You really want to see my bra?" Abby asked and giggled as Tony's eyes popped out slightly. "I'm kidding. If you look, the little sparkling pins in my hair are navy blue."

"Oh, right, well, you clean up nice," Tony relaxed then looked at Gibbs. "You too, Boss."

"If Uncle Warren is here, why aren't we starting?" Sarah asked.

"Well, just about everyone's in the room except one person," he reported with a grimace as he fingered the petals of the small bouquet he found on the table.

"Who isn't in yet?" Abby asked.

"That would be the groom," Tony reported. "He's here. He just got a text and then he stepped out of the room to make a call. He said he needs two more minutes."

Abby cocked her head to the side. If everyone on the list was there, she did not know who he could be talking to. Abby looked with concern to Gibbs who sighed and walked toward the door.

"Tony, get back in that room," Gibbs said striding out of the room. "I'll go give the groom a wakeup call."

As the two men walked quickly out of the room, Sarah hustled out after them. She grinned toward Abby, claiming she always wanted to see one of the infamous love taps from Gibbs; however, Tony turned and shook his head and wagged his finger at her before closing the door in her face as a command to stay. Sarah huffed and folded her arms.

"I'm sure he's got a good excuse—no way Tim's getting cold feet," Sarah offered. "He's pined for you for too long. Whatever this is, it's not a big deal. I'm certain."

"I know," Abby nodded. "I just can't believe we're doing this. I mean, I know we're doing this, but I'm worried."

"About what?" Sarah asked with concern. "Are you having second thoughts?"

"No," Abby shook her head vigorously. "I'm worried because I thought I would be more nervous. Why am I not more nervous?'

Sarah sighed and shrugged.

"Maybe because this is the right thing," he offered. "Although, between you, me, and this bouquet, it worries me that you want to marry my brother. I lived with him for years, and he drives me nuts. Hell, I only see him once in a while, and he makes me crazy. Maybe that's what happened to you. You've been around him so much that your brain has suffered some damage."

Abby flat expression and unamused eyes made Sarah shrink back from her sarcasm and shrug.

"Force of habit," she said. "My job is to mess with him. When he is not here, you become his surrogate. I'm happy for you—both of you. You've just got to promise me that you'll be good to him, Abby. He's madly in love with you."

"The feeling's mutual," Abby assured her.

At that moment, Gibbs returned and snapped his fingers then pointed at the door while glancing at Sarah.

"They're ready now," he said tersely. "Only thing we're waiting for is you two."

"The 9-1-1 to Nerd Land is over?" Sarah asked as she grabbed her flowers and started toward the hall.

"Turns out it was a necessary call," Gibbs said as he jerked his head to the side in an order for her to start moving. "Go walk down the aisle."

"On it… _Boss_ ," Sarah winked and smirked

Inside the room, Tony stood beside McGee as music began playing as the guests turned their heads in anticipation of seeing the bridal party enter. McGee stood rigidly with his hands clasped in front of him and looking a little stunned. Tony saw his tension and grinned. He chuckled and simply patted him on the shoulder.

"You can chill; I saw Abby," Tony said and whistled lowly. "She wasn't climbing out a window to leave so you can relax. Hey, since we didn't have a rehearsal: Is Admiral Curtis going to ask me if I give my probie to this woman?"

McGee's elbow jabbed him quickly in the ribs as he glared and clenched his jaw.

"Ow," Tony grumbled as he rubbed the sore spot. "Why do I always forget you have sharp elbows?"

"Because you're a moron," McGee said quietly.

Carol eyed them both sternly and prepared to leave her seat to speak to them when she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. She turned her head to see Ducky rise from his seat and whisper 'I'll handle this' to her. He walked gracefully forward and beckoned both men to lean toward him to speak quietly. As they did so, he reached behind both of their heads and gave each a swift but firm slap.

"Do not make me get Jethro here to slap each of you properly," Ducky said with a firm stare.

Both men nodded their solemn agreement to cease and desist their bickering. Ducky turned back to Carol and offered her a pleasant smile as he again took his seat as the door at the back opened and the music changed and the opening chords to Pachabel's "Canon" began to play.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

The ceremony was brief and without incident once Tony dug Abby's ring out of his pocket. His embarrassment and apology were genuine and dispensed with swiftly. There was a tense second when he feared Sarah might reach into his pocket to assist, but once retrieved the ring went smoothly onto Abby's finger and not another word was said about it.

The reception that followed was casual and comfortable. The two dozen guests mingled well. Carol spent time with Admiral Curtis and his wife before they needed to leave. Ducky and Penny and DiNozzo gathered in a tight chuckling knot at the back of the room.

"That looks like a conspiracy of epic proportions," Tony said to Gibbs as he nodded at the trio. "You know, the three of them together probably could have ended the Cold War in about a month's time."

Gibbs snorted and shook his head as another guest, one Tony did not expect to see but was glad to all the same, approached to join the discussion

"What makes you think they didn't?" Holly Snow remarked.

"Well, there's the part where my father wouldn't be able to keep his mouth shut about it," Tony grinned. "How are you Holly?"

"Happy to have a night off for something like this," she smiled. "Things at the shelter get a little intense at this time of year. The cold starts driving people inside. We've run out of beds for our girls. I was afraid we'll have to start turning people away, but Abby introduced me to Sister Rosita. She may be able to help out."

"Still helping runaway kids?" Tony nodded. "Rough job."

"Harder for them," Holly said. "Half of them were in abusive homes. The other half were trafficked—either as drug mules or sex slaves. If my parole officer and the shelter's board of trustees would let me contact any of my old clients, I could get the funding I need for a full time staff and the right facilities."

Gibbs huffed. He did not place much faith in the willingness of her former clients to be so generous, and he said so.

"I never said anything about generosity being their prime motivation," Holly remarked with a knowing smile. "Do you have a minute? I wanted to talk to you about something I heard."

She looked expectantly at Tony, inviting him politely to leave with her smile. He nodded, taking the dismissal well and drifted across the room where Carol was looking in need of company since the bride and groom were getting regaled with a story from Abby's lab rats. Whatever the crux of the tale, it did not seem to hold McGee's interest as he kept stealing looks at the door and pulling out his phone to look at the screen.

When the device did finally chime, he grinned with relief.

"Who is texting you?" Abby asked, making a playful grab for his phone before he tucked it back into his coat pocket.

"I'll tell you in a minute," he said pecked Abby briefly on the cheek as he made to step away. "Wait here."

"You're leaving me?" she questioned with a grin. "You said I do 20 minutes ago and already you're sneaking away?"

He stepped away, weaving easily through the crowd to the doors to the room. He caught several questioning looks for why the groom was departing; however, he did not bother to explain. Out in the hall, he made his way quickly to the bank of elevators just in time for one to open and disgorge its sole occupant.

"McGee," Ziva shook her head as a scowl enveloped her face. "I am sorry. There was traffic. The cab driver did not know how to pass properly."

"Meaning he didn't use the sidewalks?" McGee wondered as he smiled.

She lightly slapped his face in reprimand then hugged him and sighed.

"It is good to see you," she said as she kissed his cheek. "You look well."

"Never been better," he nodded. "Of course, that continuing is contingent on us getting back inside before Abby decides to…"

"What are you doing?" Abby's voice echoed along the marble floor of the hallway.

She stepped out of the reception room and blinked as she approached upon seeing her new husband hugging a woman who was just stepping off the elevator. As far as she knew, all of their closest friends in the region were already with them.

"Who are…," she began to ask then yelped ran with her arms in the air as the new arrival peaked from around McGee's shoulder. "Ziva!"

The Israeli-American found herself crushed in a massive hug that lifted her off her feet. Ziva smiled and accepted the smooshing and rapid fire recitation of the phrases _oh my god_ and _you're here_ over and over. She only released her newest guest when McGee pried her hands off Ziva.

"Okay, maybe let her breathe before her training kicks in and she attacks you back," he suggested as Abby slowly released her friend.

"I didn't know you were coming," Abby cried excitedly.

"It was a surprise that McGee arranged," Ziva replied. "One covert plan I was happy to oblige."

"McGee," Abby cooed delightedly as she hugged him generously. "We said no gifts and then you go and do something like this for me? Oh."

"I know we said no gifts, but I wanted to surprise you—and obviously I wanted Ziva here, too," he shrugged. "Unfortunately, her flight got canceled yesterday morning. We've been texting ever since as she made her way here on alternate routes. She just landed 40 minutes ago."

Ziva grumbled slightly about her interaction with immigration and customs, but the bulk of her irritation was with the airplane itself.

"I had to change in the airplane bathroom," she huffed. "I have had to maneuver strategically in many tight spaces in my life. It is not easy to put on nylons in that cramped compartment. Despite what Tony assured me of long ago, I still say with confidence that there is no way anyone could possibly enjoy sex in such an inconvenient and constricted spot."

McGee blinked as his chin dropped slightly. He shook his to clear it.

"Well, okay," McGee nodded as he felt himself blush slightly. "That's…. informative. Thank you."

He looked to Abby to see if she was prepared to change the subject or if he should when he saw his bride nodding in agreement.

"Oh, I totally agree," Abby said. "The physics behind the contortion required is just…"

She spied the second dropped-jaw look on McGee's face then chuckled as she shook her head then put her arm around him.

"I don't know that from personal experience precisely," she said. "It's professional. I helped Agent Conway with a case not long after I started at NCIS that involved a…"

"Right," McGee relaxed. "A story for another time."

She grinned, wrinkling her nose and scrunching her eyes as she nodded quickly.

"And it's a good one—it even involved someone trying to steal a panda," she said as she pinched his arm and grinned before turning again to Ziva. "We should go inside before people think we took off to enjoy ourselves in a broom closet."

McGee hung his head as she looped her arm deftly through his and rested her head on his shoulder while giggling. Whether the idea actually crossed her mind or she was merely enjoying the lunacy of anyone thinking they would ditch a roomful of guests that included family members for a quickie, he did not know. Nor, at that moment, did he care.

"Come on," he said putting his arm around Ziva as well. "Someone is bound to miss one of us, and there are a few people in there who will love to see Ziva."

"Gibbs is still here, yes?" she asked lightly.

"Of course," Abby nodded. "He walked me down the aisle. Right now, he's talking to Holly Snow, but other than that he's just been keeping an eye on Tony's father so that he doesn't hit on McGee's mother too blatantly."

Ziva nodded not finding the offering all that odd. Gibbs was a chaperone of a sort and Anthony DiNozzo Sr. was a flirt of the first order. She figured that seeing them paired against each other over the honor and attention of a woman could be well-worth the extra effort it took to arrive as swiftly as she did once the plane landed.

"His attention to her offends you, McGee?" Ziva asked.

"Oh, no, not Timmy exactly," Abby answered for him. "It's more of a problem for Tony."

"Yeah," McGee smirked as they opened the door to reveal Tony standing across the room animatedly telling Carol a story as he wore a grin the size of the Capitol Building. "I give you Tony's unrequited crush: My mother."

Ziva raised her eyebrows and watched Tony animatedly telling Carol an anecdote of some sort. She nodded politely with a smirk only a mother could manage—one that said she was listening but only half believing what she was told without finding too much fault with the exaggeration.

"Let me introduce you," McGee offered. "I know my mother would love to meet you."

"Not yet," Ziva resisted then pointed to a man across the room signaling to the newlyweds with a frantic hand gesture. "You appear to be in demand in that direction."

"Oh, that's my brother, Luca," Abby said and began to tug McGee's arm. "He's taking pictures. We'll catch up with again you in a second."

Ziva scanned the room, seeing many familiar faces, and was about to decide who she would greet first when she sensed a presence behind her. Her initial instinct was to grab for a weapon. Despite the form-fitting cocktail dress she wore, she was not without several tools of her trade. However, there was something about the weight of the stare that set her at ease; it was calming and familiar.

"Hello, Gibbs," she said before she turned around.

"Ziver," he greeted her warmly as she turned to embrace him. "Not many things could make McGee almost late for his wedding."

She grinned and explained her travel fiasco while asking after his well-being. As pointless small talk, it was comfortable yet forced. McGee was not the only one who knew she would be attending the evening's event.

"Because I arrived late, I lost my hotel reservation," she said. "I was hoping I could…"

"Always room at the inn for you," Gibbs replied. "You made up your mind yet?"

"About what?" she asked.

"About whether you're taking that job based out of Virginia," he said knowingly.

"McGee was not to tell anyone about that," Ziva hissed.

"He didn't," Gibbs replied, having his suspicion about his agent and his former agent's frequent chatting confirmed. "The CIA can keep a lot of secrets but not all of them. You're no use to them in Tel Aviv now that Mossad has alienated you at least officially. Their loss. Our gain."

Ziva huffed. Joining the CIA a year earlier only made sense when her homeland proclaimed her untrustworthy for intelligence work due to her dual citizenship—a ridiculous ploy as many within the country held it and Mossad actually found it useful to have operatives to travel with the protection of other governments. When the political hijinks of her first country then made her a detriment to CIA operations, she was sent to New York to do what she did best: spy. She did so for the United States, taking on many guises in the city that housed the UN. It was a good distraction for a while, but her frequent trips from the states to the Middle East in her undercover roles grew tiresome. She was on a layover for one such mission when she received word of the attack on McGee. At that moment, Ziva felt so lonely and isolated that called the one person she vowed she would never call when feeling sad and low: Tony.

"I am not suited for being an analyst at a desk," she replied. "They may as well incinerate me."

Gibbs smirked at her malapropism. Without either of her two normal translators available to correct her (Tony in ribbing fashion and McGee attempting to be professorial), he opted to let the gaff slide.

"The CIA might be fools sometimes, but they're not stupid," he remarked. "You shouldn't be either. It's not a desk job or an analyst's job. It's what you do best: control officer."

"Yes, I have demonstrated great success at that in the past," she said sourly as thoughts of Ari, both betraying father and country, and thoughts of him dying by her hand raced through her head.

"McGee said you were returning from a work trip," Gibbs began. "You have something for me?"

Ziva smiled and patted his arm as she noted Ducky had spotted her and was approaching.

"Something you may find useful—we will talk later, yes?" she said.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

After another hour, the mixing and mingling began to wind down. Tony's toast was approved by both Carol and Penny and served as the goodbye for the evening. As the guests made their way to the elevator, McGee quickly steered Abby away from the group and tugged her down another hallway to the south elevator—the one that ascended to the guest rooms rather than descended to the lobby.

"Where are we going?" she asked as McGee inserted a keycard and hit the button for the top floor as the doors slid closed.

She received a cryptic smile rather than an answer as the doors then slid open to a hallway with a single door at the end. She looked at him with a furrowed brow.

"Tony's father gave us a gift," McGee revealed as he unlocked the door to the suite. "Don't worry, I checked with the manager, and it's legit. He booked us a suite for the night, and it was already paid for."

"That's so sweet of him," Abby cooed.

"Actually, he said something like doing his part to help _Junior_ from getting himself in hot water," McGee replied with a half-smile. "I think he worried Tony might try crashing our wedding night just to be… well, Tony. Senior was afraid Tony would get himself hurt as a result."

"What did he think I would do to him?" she wondered with a wide, giggling grin.

McGee scoffed and shook his head.

"I think he might have meant me, Abby," McGee offered.

"You?" she giggled. "No. Not a chance. You're used to Tony butting into your life. Even from the tone in your voice as you just told me this, you kind of expect it. On the other hand, anyone wrecks my wedding night with you risks losing vital parts."

She grinned in a naughty fashion and pulled him into a deep kiss as they entered the room. The décor inside was on the palatial side. The walls had a neural pattern with a gold luster that meshed expertly with the regal combination of traditional and modern accoutrements, silk pillows mounded on an immense bed with a colossal flat screen TV in the sleeping quarters that was rivaled in size only by the one in the main room that also held a full sitting area, fireplace and dining area. On the table by the windows that overlooked DC, a large spray of flowers sat and instantly prompted a sneeze from McGee.

The table was also well appointed with a bottle of chilled champagne, a plate of chocolate covered strawberries, and candles that were recently lit. On the other side of the table was a different basket. As Abby looked at the brief note with the champagne, McGee looked at the other offering.

"It's from Tony's dad," she smiled as she plucked a strawberry from the plate while reading the card aloud. " _Congratulations to the lucky and brainy couple. May your days together be for richer, for better and forever._ Aw, that's so sweet. Oo, these are good. What's that you've got?"

McGee rolled his eyes and waved a separate card as he sighed.

"This one is from Tony," he replied. " _To McBride and McGroom_. Wow, he just can't help himself, can he?"

"Does this mean I get McNames now too even though I'm not changing my name?" Abby wondered. "Never mind. Don't answer that. Keep reading."

"Right," McGee cleared his throat. " _The old man is wrong._ _I wouldn't crashed your post-wedding lovefest. Being a very special agent with uncanny powers of perception and detection, I sussed out your hideout. No doubt, Senior went the traditional route with refreshments, but traditional just doesn't fit you two. So here is a double Caf-Pow, a package of Klowny Cake, and a package of Nutterbutters. I don't want to know what you do with any of them. Best wishes_ … Ps. _Try the Jacuzzi, the water pressure is great and keeps…_ Yeah, I'm not wasting time reading the rest of that."

McGee tossed the card on the table and pulled Abby back into the kiss that began as they entered the room.

Far below in the street, a bearded man with tired eyes sat in Layfette Park seemingly reading messages on his phone. On the bench beside him rested a large briefcase angled so that it pointed directly at the door to the hotel. In his ear sat a small audio transmitter that amplified the sounds his hidden parabolic microphone picked up as he jotted down notes from the conversations of the departing guests. His recon over the last week told him there was little going on at the hotel that evening. So close to the start of the holidays, conventions were few and guests were on the low side. Picking out those leaving the wedding that occurred on the premises was not difficult, particularly when he recognized two of the women—an elder woman still proudly brunette who walked with a feisty gate and a gracefully aging blond who bore a striking resemblance to Sybil Shephard.

Others in the group, he did not know but he captured their images with his covert equipment and made notes to help identify them later. He was pleased to note that the only obvious Navy officer in attendance left early and was not a man who raised any interest in him. What did raise his eyebrows was that the bride and groom did not appear. He was not certain if that meant they left through another door or were staying at the hotel for the night. He would pass by their home within the next hour to determine that.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Gibb's House_**

Ziva claimed a corner of the couch, slouching in her unintentionally provocative manner as Tony perched on the edge of it at the other end, doing his best to not stare at her. He had been excited and surprised to see her at the reception and even considered cuffing McGee's noggin for keeping that bit of intel from him. In the end, he decided he was too pleased with the surprise to be angry. Now, as they gathered in Gibb's living room, there was no more talk about the wedding or the crazy "Planes, Trains and Automobiles" farce it took to get Ziva to the reception that evening.

"You are all working on this investigation?" Ziva asked. "Including McGee?"

"To a point," Gibbs replied. "He's got assignments. I need him focused there."

"So he knows nearly all but not absolutely all," she nodded approvingly. "You are keeping him in the know but close to prevent him from going rogue."

Gibbs sipped Bourbon from a coffee mug as the fire crackled and threw both warmth and additional light into the room. The wind moaned and pressed against the windows as the early November night rustled the last of the remaining leaves into a frenzy.

"Yeah, well, someone taught him to do that," Gibbs looked at her pointedly. "He's nosing around on part of it now with my permission."

"Do you think he will find something the others missed?" Ziva asked. "Or is he looking for something no one else knows about at all?"

"This is McGee," Tony proclaimed. "He's looking for everything. If he finds something, he'll say so. Of course, he's not quite the same investigator he was… I mean, he's trying but he's not all the way back yet. He's… deskbound and not showing any signs of changing that."

"A dog has to want to hunt," Gibbs noted. "No amount of encouraging or nudging can change that if he doesn't have the urge."

"But if he does, no amount of scolding or obstacles can stop him," Ziva added in defense of her colleague then turned her head curiously toward Tony. "Speaking of dogs, how are you doing?"

The room got quiet, including the fire, as her words faded. She then gasped and shook her head quickly.

"I mean with your part of this inquiry," she elaborated.

Tony smirked in return as he rolled his shoulders and sighed.

"You know me," he shrugged. "Barking at intruders, digging up bones, marking my territory…"

"Humping people's legs," she offered.

"Less than you'd expect," he replied. "I'm a working dog after all."

Gibbs considered offering to fix both of them before one went in heat and the other lost all ability to reason. The point of the late night powwow was not to listen to the two of them begin their typical flirting dance. There was work to be done.

"So," he demanded. "What do you got?"

Ziva's eyes snapped swiftly back to Gibbs as her expression grew serious. What she had to impart was not much but telling all the same.

"Blackmail for one thing," she said. "My connections tell me someone outside of the U.S. military is running a drug ring and using the military to act as mules. The ships and cargo planes enter foreign countries and pick up as well as deliver a variety of narcotics and opioids."

Tony looked from her to Gibbs and shook his head.

"Yeah, we know that," he replied. "We're the ones who discovered this big spider web. That's all your contacts have?"

"They tell me the highest ranking individuals in the chain are officers and most of them do not participate precisely willingly," she continued. "They are being blackmailed for this service. There is everything from drug usage of their own to sexual exploits being used against them. Despite the means needed to coerce them into participating, these men make a good deal of money from it; however, their initiation into the cartel was not by choice."

Gibbs nodded. As Tony said, this was not precisely news. The reason behind the longevity of the scheme was interesting and could possibly be used to their advantage when interrogations started, but they needed probable cause to start filing warrants and making arrests.

"Names and details," Gibbs said. "I need both."

"I know," Ziva replied. "I am working on that. This is not easy to obtain information, Gibbs."

"That's why I asked you," he remarked.

"I do have one lead," she said with the hint of a smile. "Two leads actually, but they both seem to take me back to the same man."

Tony leaned forward as she paused. Gibbs waited calmly.

"A Syrian refugee—a child—rescued from the sea a few weeks ago," she said. "And a navy commander that was recently reported as missing despite disappearing from his duty post months ago."

Gibbs nodded. He could taste the answers as he gave her an encouraging nod to continue.

"The child is settled in Turkey currently, and he may have a story to tell about inappropriate behavior from someone in a navy uniform," Ziva reported with a shudder. "More than that I am reluctant to ay until I hear back from the relief worker who has befriended the child to see if he is able to give a description and more detail."

"You think the guy he's going to name is some AWOL navy officer?" Tony asked. "I thought this was about drugs."

"It is," Gibbs said cutting him of and nodding at Ziva to continue.

She cast a pitying look at Tony but sat up straighter and continued her report.

"You currently have a missing officer who let slip something while he was receiving treatment for a dislocated shoulder and broken collar bone late last spring," Ziva said. "He was in Dubai visiting a retired colleague, who now runs security for a wealthy Saudi. They were in a car accident. Seeking to prevent disclosure of the accident, the Saudi had his personal physician treat the injured officer. While under the influence of a sedative, the officer began talking. The doctor, of course, is a Mossad mole who also informs for the CIA."

She paused in her tale. Part of being a spy was being a rat. They listened and nodded then scurried back to their masters to report every tidbit they learned. It could be a despicable experience, particularly when the details were personal and salacious.

"What did he say?" Tony coaxed.

"He talked about another navy officer with a history of molesting children," Gibbs ventured as Ziva nodded. "He give the name?"

"No," Ziva shook her head. "He is well trained not to divulge information about his chain of command; however, he did say that he _'nearly had the man.'_ He seemed to believe that he had some evidence to prove what the man was doing. What that means precisely, I do not know. When the CIA received the information was not considered reliable or relevant so it was simply filed away until you and McGee contacted me."

Tony and Gibbs both stared at her pointedly, although for different reasons. The room grew quiet as she smiled mischievously.

"Apparently, I did teach him well," Ziva grinned in response to their surprised expressions. "You were not aware he was asking me for assistance in finding Lt. Commander Carter Scott? McGee found the electronic record in the ignored CIA file and asked me if there was more to learn."

"That son of a…," Gibbs said harshly under his breath and turned fierce eyes on Tony. "Did he tell you he knew that, what she just told us?"

Tony shook his head. McGee was tightlipped about his special research project, the one he spent all his time on when the team did not need him running searches and queries on their current case load. He never mentioned any contact with Ziva for any reason.

"He does not know all that I just told you," Ziva said, stemming some of Gibbs' anger. "He knows only that Scott was in a CIA file from a siphoned Mossad report about possibly knowing a naval officer was breaking the law. He does not know the nature of that officer's criminal behavior. He does know that Scott believed he had evidence to bring against the man. I assure you the molestation information was not in that file. I found it only two days ago in the original Mossad report which was not yet translated from coded Hebrew. I did not tell McGee yet as I knew he would be more focused on Abby and the wedding right now."

Gibbs nodded, somewhat satisfied. The urge to call McGee and get an updated report that night to be certain was strong, but looking at the attire of his two colleagues sitting on the couch reminded him that his academic agent had other things to occupy his evening. Tony, however, seemed to read that thought on Gibbs' face and grinned.

"You want me to bring him here now, Boss?" Tony offered jokingly. "I know where he is. I don't want to know what he's doing, but I'll put an end to it if you think this is important enough—just remember, that it's Abby's evening I'll be ruining too so there's a chance you'll find part of me boiled in a beaker and the rest of me cooking Major Masspec on Monday if I do go get him."

With little more to offer in the way of information, Gibbs pointed Ziva to a pile of blankets on the chair and invited her to make herself at home. Without another word, he took his mug and went to the basement. Tony sat quietly on the end of the couch the sighed as his head filled with too many questions, not all focused on the case. Sleeping, he knew, would be nearly impossible that night.

"Well, it's been quite an evening," Tony said as he stood and prepared to leave. "You, appearing like a ghost out of the mists. McGee waltzing Abby off in wedded bliss. It's practically the ending of a movie."

"I prefer action films to romantic ones," Ziva replied.

"Romance too shallow and short-lived for you?" Tony asked as he walked toward the door.

Ziva stayed on the couch for a moment before politely following him.

"For me, thus far," she nodded. "For Abby and McGee, I do not think so. They are the best of friends who also love each other in ways that have no parallel in my life."

That comment sliced into Tony. The urge to remind her that she had friends, good friends, in the United States that she left behind was strong, but he stopped himself. She might not have kept up with him, but he also did not stay in close contact with her.

"So, no secret lovers in the sands of Tel Aviv?" Tony raised his eyebrows. "Come on, you're the female equivalent of James Bond. Bond had his Bond girls. Ziva David could have her manly harem of Ziva men."

Unwillingly, she laughed in a genuine and relaxed fashion. The sound rippled over him prompting a longing smile to tug at the corners of his mouth. He watched her tucked her hair behind her ear in a way that made him ache for not having seen it in so long. The specific amber shade of her perfectly shaped eyes had been lost to him as well, yet there in the dimness of Gibb's hallway, he could not believe he ever let a single detail slip his memory for they all rushed back with a head-spinning suddenness.

"I would prefer what Abby has," she admitted.

Tony scrunched his brow as his face twisted in confusion.

"Did you just admit unrequited love for McGeek?" he asked. "I know you two have a squirrely friendship that frankly makes no sense to me, but I didn't think you were lusting after the guy. Wow. Did seeing him get hitched hurt?"

Her expression sharpened as her hand shot out, like a squid tentacle, and snapped his earlobe viciously before retracting in the blink of an eye. Tony yelped as he hand pressed against the tab of smarting skin.

"That is not what I meant and you know it," she scolded with her arms safely folded. "I do adore McGee, but not in that way. I was expressing my envy that Abby has a loyal and devoted partner who both shares her feelings and was capable of expressing that."

"Did you go back to ninja school?" Tony complained as he made a pained face. "I never saw you do that to anyone before. Damn. That hurts. Is my ear bleeding?"

"No, but I can do that as well," she scoffed as she turned her back on him. "Goodnight, Tony."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come.


	39. Chapter 39

**_oOoOoOo_**

The sun was sinking swiftly below the horizon as Abby padded down the stairs after she finished unpacking from their trip. It has been a short five days in Louisiana following their first (if rushed) Christmas at home before jetting off on their vacation/honeymoon. While away on the trip, she and McGee managed to travel there, spend time with her family, spend some time alone, and even catch up with Agent Pride, who assured them they could not be considered on a honeymoon unless they ate at his favorite dive. Despite the skeptical looks McGee had during the meal, no one contracted food poisoning. Then, before Abby was ready, they needed to head to the airport. Saying goodbye to her brother Luca was exceptionally hard and left her grumpy on the plane, but now that she was back in the familiar confines of home the irritation was a thing of the past.

Over all it was a good trip, but she was glad to be back in the DC area. She was settled in, she was ready for work the next day, and she had a few free hours to do as she pleased before turning in for the night. Life could not be much better. All she was missing, she realized, was her husband.

McGee disappeared from the unpacking endeavor almost immediately after she started hers. One upside to living with a man raised by a Navy admiral who demanded his son's room pass inspection at any given moment was the neatness and efficiency that surrounded McGee at all times. He seemed incapable of making a mess or leaving one behind (unless he had help and it was in her lab, she remembered with a brief scowl).

As she reached the ground floor in search of her legal other half, she heard the telltale sounds of a keyboard in action.

"What are you doing?" Abby asked as she stuck her head into the computer room just off the living room.

At first, she thought he might be Skyping with his mother, explaining yet again why a side trip to Dallas was not possible despite the fact he and Abby were relatively close while in New Orleans the previous week. However, the lack of voices from the room nixed that idea.

"We need to talk," he said seriously as he turned off his laptop and ushered her back into the living room.

"If this is about me calling you cranky while we were waiting for our luggage, don't worry about it," she said as she stroked his chin. "We're both just tired. We know we irritate each other when we travel. Everything's fine now."

"No," McGee shook his head as he gestured for her to sit on the couch. "It's not about that."

Her face grew worried as she pulled her legs up into a lotus pose and gripped his hands to keep hers from shaking.

"What is it?" she asked fearfully. "You look so serious. What's wrong?"

McGee took a steadying breath as he shook his head.

"Nothing," he assured her. "I just did something that you need to know about. I know I said I would talk to you when the time was right, and I am, technically. I just already did it before talking to you. So I'm telling you now."

"Okay, but you're still not telling anything, Tim," she shook her head. "What exactly did you do?"

"I submitted my application for re-instatement as a full-time field agent," he said.

Her chin dropped slightly as a mixture of emotions played across her face. She was shocked because he had not so much as mentioned the word re-instatement since August. She was also terrified as memories of his bloody clothing and useless body armor laying on her lab table flashed before her eyes along with the image of him suffering in his hospital bed. She was angry because he said they would discuss this step before he took any action. Rounding out the emotional whirlwind was the pride she felt that he had stop riding the fence and felt he was ready to step up to be an agent again.

However, all of that crashed together and rolled out of her mouth in a single sound.

"Huh," she said as she stared back at him wide-eyed.

"Huh?" he repeated. "I've made a huge, life-altering decision seeking to go back to a job that nearly killed me and scares you, a job that my superiors might decide I'm not suited for any more and so they reject me soundly, and your response is 'huh'?"

"Uh huh," she nodded dumbly before throwing her arms around his neck and squeezing him tightly as her heart beat elatedly while worried tears blistered in her eyes. "I'm proud of you, and I want to kick you at the same time."

McGee accepted the embrace and her explanation with a chuckle and a wince as her grip grew tighter.

"That's more what I was expecting," he sighed. "I know I said we would discuss it, but I spent a lot of time thinking about it this week while we were away."

"You did?" she asked. "You were thinking about it but failed to mention it to me? Why? What triggered you to want to do it now? Did meeting my extended family made you want to carry a gun again?"

Her cousins, she supposed, did prompt that reaction in some people. They were bayou boys who didn't precisely have a lot of use for the law. They didn't break it, per se, they just didn't see a need for it because they felt they could deal with problems on their own. They were lukewarm to McGee until they found out he was a Star Wars fan. After that, their discussions were relatively smooth.

"Not the way you mean it," he admitted. "It was something they said when they were talking about Yoda. It was a whole fear leads to the darkside discussion. The point is, I've just been afraid of being rejected again. I figured I'd just do it. I really should have learned my lesson by now about that. I nearly didn't get to be with you for that reason, but I took a chance and look how that turned out."

"Yeah, you cut your foot and needed another tetanus shot," she remarked as she nodded.

"I meant that I got you," he replied as he stroked her hair and looked deeply into her eyes. "So I figured I'd never know unless I tried again. The review committee meets once a month. In a couple weeks, I'll have my answer and I'll walk away a fool or a king, right? I mean, if they take me back, great because that's what I want. If they don't… Well, that's another discussion—one I will have with you."

Abby sighed and fixed him with twist smile that conveyed both her frustration and her pride in him.

"Yeah, next time you tell me you're going to do something, you stick to your word, Mister," she scolded him as she pushed him back into the cushions and pinned him to the couch. "You understand that I'll have to punish you for breaking your word to me; however, I also want to reward you for taking this step. That leaves me only one thing to do."

She grinned wickedly as McGee began to smirk and shake his head.

"No handcuffs," he said as her mouth pressed against his as he reached toward the lamp on the end table and turned off the light.

Across the street, a bucket truck lowered its elevated arm to the ground. The man dressed in the cable company's uniform made notes on his tablet as he pulled his eyes away from the house that had just gone dark at day's last rays winked out of sight. He spent a lot of time in this neighborhood during the last week, keeping an eye on this house in particular but the whole neighborhood in general. Now that the occupants had returned, he felt he could return to watching for his targets in Norfolk. The surveillance camera he had installed atop the utility pole on this street would allow him to keep the McGee's under watchful eyes while he returned to the navy base 200 miles south where he would hope to keep eyes on the house, its occupants, and any visitors.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Director's Office_**

 ** _Monday Morning_**

Vance waited for Gibbs to finish reading the file he handed him when he entered 15 minutes earlier. He was not sure if this was a stalling ploy because he never knew Gibbs to pay strict attention to any paperwork he ever handed the man.

"The review board had to delay its meeting until later in the month," Vance said. "That's the problem with having men who've only worn suits all their career deciding field readiness. One hint of the flu and they all call out sick."

"Agency policy," Gibbs reminded him. "Any sign of contagion and you stay home."

"That's for people who come into the office and have contact with the people who do the real work," Vance grumbled. "These are personnel paper pushers who stay in their offices and conference call all day."

"Well, someone pulled agents off the board a few years ago," Gibbs remarked flatly.

"Your _I Told You So_ is noted," Vance grumbled. "Never mind about my policy short-comings. I need to know if you're recommending or not recommending McGee's application for re-instatement. We've only got two other applications in front of this one. One is perfunctory—Tracey Collins, who just got the all-clear her cornea transplants last November. The other is Jesse Triner—he's suing us so that one will take a while to get through; however, if we do finish that one, McGee's is next."

Gibbs read the reports. The medical findings were unsurprising. He could see for himself that his agent had recovered fully. Cardiology reports stated the damage was fully healed and the only residual sign of injury were the scars he would carry for the rest of this life. The physical readiness results showed he passed all of his tests handily. Firearms proficiency logged his second best score on the range in his career.

"The psych profile was done by Wolf again," Gibbs noted.

"Cranston abstained as she was McGee's therapist," Vance replied. "It's protocol. It also carries more weight of the one who raised concerns previously makes a follow up finding that give a passing grade."

Gibbs nodded. Essentially, the evaluation ruled McGee was for duty. There were standard cautions cited, a requirement to protected the board against liability if the unthinkable happened. However, the board would see a series of tests and evaluations showing the agent no longer tested high in areas of concern nor low in areas of interest. He was slightly damaged, something one could say about every agent who dealt with the cases a major case squad did for a dozen years, but nothing that should hinder his return to full duty.

"Your experts are all in agreement," Gibbs said as he put the file back on the desk.

"One left," Vance nodded. "You. Verdict? I'll recommend to the board what's in that file unless you give me a reason not to."

Gibbs sat quietly for a moment. It wasn't a question of fitness. He knew McGee could do all aspects of the job. It was a question of motivation. He knew what prompted McGee to resubmit his paperwork—it was the proper and expected thing to do. What Gibbs did not know was whether the fire, the desire, the yearning, to do the job again was still there. McGee would always have a timid aspect to his approach in being an agent—that was merely his personality. It was neither a fault nor a detriment to the job. It was merely his spin on a career that needed all kinds of personalities to make the agency work. The world investigation took all kinds and when an interrogation needed a soft touch, it was his sensitive and academic agent who could get the answers. McGee naturally possessed those elusive soft skills that left some agents wanting when they dealt with skittish or traumatized victims. When a turbo-geek ten-times smarter than the suspect was needed, the only guy in the room with the Ivy League degrees was Gibbs' first call. In those types of instances, McGee's confidence, understanding, and integrity would shine through and get the team what it needed.

However, before his injury, he had been working on those other skills. The ones that were difficult for him because they forced him to be something he was not: hard. It was to his credit in many ways that he was not his father's son, but the man's forceful personality and abrasive approach to demanding answers was a tool that would be helpful to have in McGee's back of tricks. They were skills he would never be comfortable wielding, but before Afghanistan he was working on them. That effort was one of the reason Gibbs suggested sending him there, to continue his development.

Now, Gibbs wondered whether McGee could still do what he had before, push past the barrier of his overly intellectual and kind-hearted approaches, to set aside his introversion to take the aggressive and evasive steps needed, to find a deeper level of comfort and competency when out of his preferred elements of the brainy or caring side of operations.

"He submitted his application sooner than I thought he would," Gibbs said.

"He's done a lot of things sooner than anyone expected," Vance remarked. "I seem to recall a wedding a couple months back that occurred just a couple weeks after he got engaged. Seems to me he's interested in moving forward at a pretty good clip lately. The question is, do you believe that's wise?"

"You've talked to him," Gibbs noted. "You had him in here for a while this morning."

"I did," Vance nodded. "Honestly, I think he'll be shaky at first whenever he gets his shield back, but I think he'll get his sea legs back."

Gibbs smirked. McGee never had sea legs. Just the word boat could turn him green. However, there was no point in saying so.

"So, what's it going to be?" Vance asked. "Thumbs up or thumbs down?"

Gibbs's face remained stony as he gazed beyond Vance toward the ship yard visible through his windows. The director waited, wondering if the agent's hesitation was based on McGee or on Gibbs' personal feelings about the agent. Gibbs cared about all of his team. They were his family. He grew fiercely protective when he felt they were in danger. One agent under him paid the ultimate price for the job. Since the death of Agent Todd, Gibbs' team had faced danger and adversity many times, but none had ever tangoed with peril the way McGee had the previous year. His injury had taken a toll on the entire time—Gibbs included. Vance knew Gibbs had his agent worming around in sensitive areas searching for his lost friend and person of interest in their ongoing case. That was a vote of confidence, but it wasn't enough to call it the recommendation needed to bring the application before the board.

Gibbs sighed and picked up a pen from the desk then scribbled on a page in the folder. He dropped the pen and walked toward the door. Vance pulled the file back and looked to see which column Gibbs signed: recommend or not recommend. He nodded as he looked at the scrawl.

"Hail, Caesar," Vance remarked. "The board meets in two weeks. If we get to this application at that meeting, he'll have a decision by the end of the month. If he asks, you can tell him the timeline if you feel it's appropriate."

"Waiting and wanting are part of the process that won't get in his way whether he asks me or not, Leon," Gibbs said.

"Meaning?" Vance questioned.

"He'll hack the system to see what the review board is doing to get his answers if he needs them badly enough," Gibbs replied.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _MTAC_**

McGee stepped into the darkened, high-tech, secure communications room on the morning that January bowed its head to become February. This was the first time he stepped foot in the room since the afternoon he was given the assignment to go to Afghanistan to help Agent Burley the previous April. He felt a thrill of exhilaration at returning to the intel and communication nerve center of the agency. He nodded at the techs who turned to acknowledge him. Vance stood in front of the big screen talking to someone who stopped McGee in his tracks.

"I appreciate you relaying the message, Captain," the director said to the man on screen. "I know acting as a messenger is well below your pay grade."

"A job worth doing is beneath no man, Director," Captain Neil Jackson of the aircraft carrier Theodore Roosevelt.

McGee held back in the shadows, not wanting to interrupt. He had a brief flash of memory: sitting at a table in the ward room on the aircraft carrier across from Jackson. Then too, just has he had a moment ago, the man quoted McGee's father. Jackson's dedication and reverence for his late friend and mentor was apparently (and unsurprisingly) still strong.

"A wise sentiment," Vance nodded. "In that vein, you'll be getting another visitor. We'll need to send another agent in to assist my team in Deshu. What's your situation? I'm seeing reports about a typhoon in your quadrant of the deep blue."

"Seas are rolling and in another day we'll be facing over 100 mile per hour winds," the captain replied. "Nothing we can't handle, but we won't be sending up any planes until we've put some distance between us and those triple digit winds. We're moving the entire carrier group further out to avoid them."

"Too far to transport someone in?" Vance asked. "I've got two men in-country who need another set of eyes."

"We can skirt it," Jackson bragged. "We'll be at the edge of the advisable flight distance, but after nearly 15 years of this our pilots are experts at flying on bingo fuel. I just hope your agent doesn't mind a bumpy ride."

Vance nodded.

"Don't worry about us, our agents are made of tougher stuff than that," he assured the officer. "After all, whoever goes will have to deal with Agent Gibbs—trust me, that's far worse than a few updrafts and some wind sheer."

Jackson chuckled and nodded.

"Then I'm guessing it won't be Admiral McGee's son," the captain said. "I heard from my wife that he's still with NCIS but that you've got him pushing paper. Not my place to say anything, but that's probably for the best."

Ever the politician, Vance's face revealed nothing but his rigid posture and punchy reply did not yield to the man.

"You're right, Captain," the director bristled. "It's not your place, but may I ask why you feel the need to say something?"

Jackson shook his head and sighed in a superior and pitying way.

"Don't get me wrong, I know he's a smart kid," Jackson said. "I just never thought law enforcement was a good fit for him—neither did his father and nor does his mother still. She and my wife are still in touch. I don't usually put much stock maternal worries, but in this instance I tend toward agreeing. Tim's clever, but I think what happened last year is proof enough that he isn't cut out for being in harm's way."

McGee clenched his jaw and his fists but remained silent standing in the darkness. Hearing his parents' lack of faith in his career choices was always difficult but was not surprising. Neither ever kept their reservations quiet. His father's foundation was a complete lack of confidence in his son's abilities and fortitude. His mother's was abject fear. Hearing their reservations was never easy, but the harshness of the sting faded long ago in part because he usually found he had supporters just as convinced he was not out of his mind with his choices.

"Respectfully, Captain, you're wrong in everything you said except when you called him smart," Vance replied. "Every agent under my command is more than capable of holding his or her own in dire situations—they wouldn't be NCIS agents otherwise. As for Special Agent McGee, he is a valuable asset both in the office and in the field. I understand his family's concern—the loved ones of every agent I've got have those fears. As for what happened to him last year, frankly that's all the proof I need that NCIS is lucky to have him. I won't keep you any longer, Captain. Thank you for the update. Our agent will be on board with you within the next day."

The feed cut then and Vance turned around to see McGee lurking behind him with a wary but slightly offended expression.

"I gather you heard some of that," the director remarked.

"I must have missed the important part," McGee said. "Director, Gibbs and Tony are TDY to an undisclosed location in Afghanistan. Are they the agents in Deshu?"

"You know it?" Vance asked.

"City in Helmand Province, interior but south of Kabul," McGee reported. "I wasn't aware the Marines have a presence there."

Vance grimaced as he slipped a toothpick into his teeth and offered McGee a frank expression.

"You know why you're in here?" Vance asked. McGee shook his head. "You've got your full clearance back as of this morning. The board approved your application last night. Effective today you are certified as a field agent once again. Congratulations."

McGee blinked, stunned at the news. He had begun to believe the board was going to remand his application once again. While he was elated at the news, something else was at the fore of his mind.

"Thank you, Director, but back to what you said about having agents in Deshu," McGee said returning to his original inquiry. "Gibbs and Tony flew out three days ago to interview members of SEAL Team 4 about the disappearance of Carter Scott."

Vance sighed and gestured to one of the seats facing the big screen. The picture had now changed to a satellite image of a tremendous storm over an ocean that was of more interest to the room techs than to McGee.

"That is part of their mission brief," Vance explained. "Originally, they were with the carrier group to talk to members of the lieutenant's platoon as they rotate to a training location outside Deshu. While onboard, something came up that sent Gibbs and DiNozzo inland with them to continue their interviews. The marine base is southwest of Deshu, and a computer in their Comm Center just failed a root directory level virus sweep."

McGee nodded. Root directory attacks were fairly common with viruses. The DOD had plenty of software to deal with them.

"But this is only the second time we've seen this," Vance explained. "See, the sweep was done by us—a protocol we instituted a few months ago after you cracked a code for us. This latest sweep turned up a signature matching the code you found in the system at Camp Foxtrot last year. Our cybercrimes unit created and covertly deployed a sniffer program to check all routine virus sweeps done by the DOD on Afghan bases to look for that code signature and report back to us and us alone. Gibbs and DiNozzo went to the base under the guises of asking more questions about Lt. Commander Scott."

"But you've got them babysitting a computer," McGee nodded. "You're leaving it in operation and not showing a direct interest in it?"

"Precisely," Vance nodded. "I've had a team working on this code for months—ever since you got us into the hidden partition. Do you know what the team has discovered?"

"That the program is written in virtually the same fashion as the laptop I pirated in the DHS operation in July?" McGee suggested.

It was an observation he made months earlier when he saw the coding locking the partition from the Afghanistan computer while he was supposed to be concentrating on the apparently unrelated DHS operation occurring when he first returned to DC following his convalescence in Dallas. McGee even put the observation in his report. When he heard nothing further on it, he figured it had been dismissed. From the look on Vance's face, that was a miscalculation.

"Our cyber division needs to learn how to properly vet their reports even if it bruises their egos," Vance seethed. "Your side note has made the investigation into this drug cabal an interagency turf war. We've divvied up areas of interest for now. FBI is looking for the programmer responsible for this code and any possible ties between him and our elusive drug ring."

"What does that leave NCIS?" McGee asked.

"Catching the Navy or Marine personnel involved," Vance said. "So far, we've been behind the curve every step of this investigation. I want that to stop. Now."

McGee nodded, feeling and sharing the man's frustration. All of their legwork—official and otherwise—was being usurped by the FBI's authority, which was unsurprising with the Inspector General's Office lurking in the shadows. Parsons was likely behind this, bringing in a federal agency with jurisdiction over civilians on the case. That merely confirmed that the cartel's tentacles reached outside the military (or opened the door that it was the outside individuals in control of the ring).

"Well, if you've got an isolated node with pristine code no one has tried to burn yet, you've got your way in," McGee said.

"How?" Vance asked.

From the tone of his question, he had an answer but was looking for confirmation or debunking. McGee looked at him plainly and answered.

"It's a pure root in to their network," McGee said. "We know they need in-person access to do their shuffling of funds and arranging transits. They've kept their head office, if you will, mobile for decades. It's dumb luck that you've stumbled on what appears to be the latest location."

"So, pull the hard drive and try to get what we can before they pack up and start up somewhere else?" Vance asked.

"No," McGee shook his head. "If you pull the computer now, you lose the only chance we've had yet to watch and track these guys."

Vance snorted and clenched the toothpick in his teeth tightly. That was what he feared. They needed to keep their discovery secret, but with the camp so isolated and possibly suspicious with the presence of NCIS, there was no way to transmit messages from the Comm Center with any privacy. Removing a computer (or the hard drive) might be easier, but when whoever was using the covert program signed in and attempted to utilize it they would notice it was gone, ruining any advantage the investigation gained by taking the system.

"So someone needs to sit at the computer and analyze the code first-hand," Vance said and received the confirming nod he had anticipated. "And we'll have to do it without arousing suspicion, which means going in covertly. Doing that with Gibbs and DiNozzo already there will be difficult. Our insiders will already be on high alert."

The muscles in Vance's jaw bulged. He did not like changing course without talking to his men in the field. Unfortunately, due to the nature of their mission, contact was not easy to arrange—particularly when they could never be sure who in the Comm Center might be involved. Gibbs was only able to communicate his message to Vance via a handwritten note a chopper pilot carried back to the ship and gave to the Captain on Gibbs' order. While the Captain thought it was merely operational security working to its fullest, he had no idea what information he had actually transferred. Gibbs' message about the bleakness of his inquiry into the missing SEAL was actually a call for help on the techno side of things. He and DiNozzo were out of their depth.

"I need options," Vance commanded.

"You could send someone in just as you told Captain Jackson—someone there allegedly to support Gibbs and Tony rather than engage in a separate inquiry," McGee suggested. "All they would have to do is make it look like their group are focused only on Carter and that they don't care about any of the computers on the base."

Vance nodded then smiled slyly.

"Show me the steps and I can dance all night," Vance agreed. "If I do that, it means I need someone who can get into the application's code without being caught, analyze it and put a tracker on it without it being found. I've had a team working on this code for months. My top coder is Keating."

"You can't send Dan to Afghanistan," McGee shook his head. "He's afraid of Gibbs here in the Navy Yard. Add to that armed insurgents surrounding him in a warzone halfway around the world and he'll fall apart."

"Well, I can't conference them with him in MTAC because it would draw too much attention," Vance shook his head. "That leaves me with Alan Morin, the deputy chief of our cyber unit in Okinawa. He's good, but he's also fairly new to the team tearing apart the code. He's no more ready for this kind of field work than Keating is, but he's closest. I need you to stay here and conference with him. You tell him everything you know about how this programmer thinks and how he created this menace."

McGee shook his head. It was not that he thought so little of Morin. In fact, he felt he was one of the most capable programmers and cyber-techs in the agency. He was another NSA steal who followed Bishop from her old agency to NCIS.

"No, sir, doing that would be pointless," McGee said. "I couldn't teach him anything in that short amount of time that would be of much use."

"Alan is a capable coder," Vance asserted.

"I know he is," McGee nodded. "I'm not questioning his overall competency, Director. I'm saying he's no more capable to go into the field than Keating is. With all due respect, you're overlooking the obvious choice. Or did you only say what you did to Captain Jackson because he insulted your agency?"

Vance eyed McGee cautiously and thought back to the eagerness he displayed months earlier when trying to convince the agency that he was fit for duty. He had been re-instated for all of 10 minutes and now was on the verge of suggesting Vance put him right back where he was when he lost his field status.

"I need someone there now," Vance said firmly. "There are typhoons in the Indian Ocean shifting the fleet. We've another mess that's got a geo-political nightmare brewing in the Arabian Sea. I have a narrow window to get someone in to see that computer and out again without anyone in the camp knowing what we did, and you're telling me you're all I've got?"

McGee heard the doubt, rightfully placed, in the man's voice. It was the worst possible situation. Given any other set of circumstances, he would have never suggested this. In fact, the fluttering of his heart and the tremors he felt in his hands told him he was already regretting opening his mouth, but both his father and his grandmother taught him to speak the truth even if his voice and his knees shook.

"Yes, but I'm also saying I'm the best you've got," McGee replied. "Director, you re-instated me because it was determined I'm ready. If you trust your judgement, then put me in the field, sir. If not…"

Vance sighed and looked at the clock on the wall. He was already an hour late to get home and finish packing for his conference the next day in San Diego. Leaving the office unattended was never his preference, but he especially hated it when he did so on days when he needed to be as close to his secure communications as possible.

"Can you do this?" Vance asked him directly. "Just so we're clear, I'm not asking about your programming skills."

McGee nodded and took a steadying breath. Saying no to this assignment was not possible. If he did, he knew it meant that he had no right to pick up his shield again and would be admitting his career was over. Despite the cold knot in his stomach, there was only one answer he could give.

"I petitioned to be a field agent again knowing this is the job," McGee replied. "Either I'm a field agent or I'm not. If you agree that I am and you trust me, then give me the assignment, sir."

Vance snorted at the frankness as stood up as he looked toward the door.

"It's a shame your father never understood what you do for this agency," he offered kindly then his tone turned crisp and business-like again. "Hop a ride on the next chopper from the Pentagon to Norfolk. I want you on a transport heading East in the next three hours. You'll be playing hopscotch to get to Deshu over the next 24 hours. It's going to be a bumpy ride, Special Agent McGee. Pack your Dramamine."

McGee nodded and stood numbly in the quiet room. In the back of his mind, he could hear Tony quoting "The Hunt For Red October": _Next time, write a damn memo._

He looked at the big screen to see the small images of the ships, the battle group in the Indian Ocean trying to outrun a storm that engulfed most of the screen. McGee sighed and swallowed his fears as he realized he had one more difficult thing to do—something he probably should have done before offering to throw himself into this duty.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

Traveling home and back took nearly no time at all—one of the perks of living in Arlington rather than Silver Spring. His travel bag was packed and waiting for him on his desk along with his recently re-issued sidearm and shield. Although gratified to have them again, he was not as pleased with the other items he would be assigned that afternoon: Kevlar helmet and body armor. He felt queasy about putting them on—the body armor in particular. He thought of uniquely odd that the one standard protection that previously gave him some semblance of ease was the one that he dreaded wearing the most now that he knew how ineffective it could be.

But that was a hurdle for another hour. First, he had another stop to make.

McGee walked swiftly into the lab to find his wife looming over a microscope with music filling the air. On the plasma screen at the front of the lab were up-close images of a crystalline structure. They caught his eye momentarily as he called to her.

"Abby?" he said. "Hey, I need to talk to you."

"Just a second," she said. "I'm analyzing this fracture pattern."

"It's a low velocity impact," McGee said confidently. "If it's not from a low speed car crash then it's was caused by a bat or a club of some sort."

Abby looked up at him it a sour face as she put her hands on her hips.

"Well, yeah, I know that," she replied. "I'm trying to determine if I was on point or at an angle, Agent McGee."

She huffed testily, but a grin twinkled behind her eyes. She had taken to calling him Agent McGee in the lab since the wedding as a reminder to herself that the rules about office behavior were still in effect even though she wore his ring and he hers. It was also a way to ease back into the reality that, most likely, someday soon he would again be a field agent again. She was happy for him and worried at the same time.

"That has to wait," he said dragging her away from the microscope and into her office area. "I need to tell you something."

She smirked as she withheld the urge to joke about whether it involved locking the doors and stepping into the ballistics room together for some privacy, but that expression faded when he turned down her music and closed the sliding glass door. She realized this was obviously not a moment for teasing about naughty office behavior.

"What's wrong?" she asked immediately.

"Nothing is wrong; I've been re-instated effective immediately," he said, but before she could congratulate him, he offered the next piece. "And I'm TDY somewhere else for a few days starting today, as in I'm leaving from here in a few minutes."

"What?" she gaped. "Right now? Where?"

"That's sort of classified," he said seeing her eyes narrow in frustration as her face grew paler with worry.

"Where?" she asked. "Don't give me the classified line."

While his actual location was classified—the entire base was technically classified while the SEAL team used it for training and whatever else they had going on—his general geo-political location was not precisely a secret. The problem wasn't that she was a security risk to know; it was that he dreaded telling her. However, as the worry and anxiousness continued to cloud her expression he crumbled and placed a comforting hand on her arm.

"Afghanistan," he said as he felt her grow tense and begin to shiver.

"What?" she yelped as her eyes grew wide and fearful. "I mean, why?"

"Gibbs and Tony need my help," he said plainly. "Nothing has happened. They just need someone to help them with their mission—they're mostly just interviewing some Navy personnel about a missing officer."

"Why can't someone else help them?" she asked.

"I can't explain that," he said.

A non-answer, he decided, was better than lying to her, which he had come dangerously close to doing already and felt terrible about it. Abby sensed his hesitation and clearly saw there was more that he could not say. She hopefully offered the suggestion of assisting them via MTAC, but McGee sadly shook his head.

"They can't do a secure connection," he said. "This needs in-person assistance. I'm sorry I can't explain it more right now, and I'm sorry for the short notice, but you don't need to worry. I'll just be home before know it."

A horrified look radiated from her face as she felt her stomach begin to roll. She wanted to yell, to argue with him, but her mind flashed to a similar moment nearly a year ago in the lab when she had done precisely that before he departed for the war zone solely to provide technical assistance. Rather than snap as she so desperately wanted to do, she threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly.

"There's no other way?" she asked fearfully.

"None, but I'll be fine," he promised her with more confidence than he actually felt. "I'll be with Gibbs and Tony the whole time."

She nodded and mumbled something he did not quite hear but suspected was along the lines of ' _you better be_.' She squeezed him tightly, making McGee briefly worry that extricating himself would become something of a wrestling match; however, as he offered a sigh of regret her grip loosened.

"I have to go now," he said looking into her misty eyes and feeling a lump in his throat just as bothersome as the knot in his stomach. Rather than dwell on that, he tried for something more cavalier in his parting. "No one will complain if you kiss me goodbye."

"No," she shook her head prompting his eyebrows to shoot up in surprise until she elaborated before pressing her lips to his. "Not goodbye. Just… good luck and be safe, Agent McGee."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

As the chopper rattled across the sky and began its descend into the landing zone for the camp on the outskirts of Deshu, a might dust cloud filled he sky. As the helo set down, it disgorged three men, all dressed in body armor and helmets. Two were mountains of muscle and bone who lugged large duffle bags packed for a long stint in country. The third was a slighter built man who walked on stiff legs and squinted to keep the dust out of his eyes. His arm was raised across his face to keep from breathing in too much of it. He had but one inhaler with him. While most of his last trip to Afghanistan was lost to him, he did recall running out of his asthma meds and how unpleasant that made an already dreadful trip even worse.

Across the compound, Major Bill Walters ducked into the tent that served as the communication center for the base. He approached the two NCIS agents on hand to interview every available member of SEAL Team 4 on the actions and disappearance of Lt. Commander Scott the previous summer. The interviews were slow going as the team was scattered in the surrounding hills, only reporting in every few days as they watched a warlord of some interest in anticipation of some future action no one was allowed to talk about openly.

"Your guy finally touched down," Major Walters informed the duo. "Sgt. Pierce is bringing him here. They finally were able to get flights off the carrier. That storm was a big son of a bitch. Six hundred miles wide and moving at hell of a clip. I'm almost sorry to see it go. It's like when a grenade doesn't go off. The duds always break my heart."

"That's poetic, Major," Tony grinned. "Well, it only took three days to get him here—not bad for a guy who is used to island time."

"He's Hawaiian?" Walters asked.

"Not anymore," Tony explained about the expected expert from Okinawa. "Morin went to the University of Hawaii then got scooped up by the NSA and dumped in Virginia. I think we wooed him to our agency with a promise he could go island again so we sent him to Japan."

Tony grinned at that. He had spoken to Morin twice in the previous year—usually to get someone in his shop to stop opening case files by accent when what they meant to do was run a search on old cases. Regardless of the screw up, Morin seemed like an okay guy. What his programming skills were, he did not now, but he figured with the importance of this case Vance wouldn't send someone who couldn't get the job done.

"Well, we're landlocked so he'll need to dream of the ocean," Walters said. "What's he going to need?"

"More brains than he's probably got," Tony quipped then received an arid stare from Gibbs. "I mean, he'll need a power cord and, well, power. He'll know how to take care of whatever else to get into our secure files. Sorry about taking over your office here. It's just this AWOL case is getting kind of political back home. You know how it is."

Walters nodded, taking the information in without question.

"If you need to talk to D.C., it's encrypted satellite phones only," Walters reminded him. "I've got one and Captain Loughlin has one you can use."

"We'll let you know when, or even if, we get to that point," Tony nodded. "Morin might not need to chat with our folks in D.C. If you haven't figured it out yet, Boss and I aren't usually human resource officers."

"We don't have much use for the type out here anyway," the major grinned. "Just know that if you do need to check in with DC that it's 2 a.m. on Thursday back there."

"No worries; our guy will be there," Tony nodded as he saw the tent flap get lifted and the newest member of their party appeared silhouetted in the triangle of light. "He's a… McGee."

Tony blinked and stared in amazement before tapping Gibbs on the shoulder to get his attention away from the report he was reading.

"What's that mean?" Walters asked. "That DC slang for something?"

"Apparently, it means someone needs his head checked," Tony muttered as their fellow agent stood wearily in the tent.

McGee took a deep breath while trying to swallow down the nausea caused by a combination of nerves and the zigzagging pattern the helicopter used when traveling up the dangerous valley to avoid any surface to air missiles looking for a target.

"McGee?" Gibbs asked as he stood aggressively, drawing a confused stare from Walters as Tony continued to gape. "What the hell are you doing here? The guy from Okinawa was…"

"Not available," McGee contended as he shrugged half-heartedly. "You got stuck with me instead. I'm all that Director Vance could find on short notice."

Tony cut his eyes quickly to McGee who gave the barest of nods to acknowledge that he understood that they were not to speak freely in any mixed company.

"You going to need a satellite phone to call Washington?" Walters asked.

"No," McGee shook his head. "I brought the records we need on my laptop. Director Vance thought it would be simpler this way so he signed off on me taking the personnel records so we can cross reference them with your interviews. Hopefully, this will make it faster."

"Director Vance sent you?" Gibbs asked.

McGee nodded and waited. Gibbs stared with a muddled expression then sighed tiredly as he waved, strategically McGee thought, toward a desk in the corner of the tent.

"Set up over there I guess and get started," Gibbs ordered. "Tony, start going over our interviews with him. I'll see where we are with the last three on the list."

McGee nodded and felt Gibbs stare at him flatly as he began setting up his laptop at the far desk, conveniently close to another computer that did not appear to be turned on.

"Can I move this one?" McGee asked Walters. "I'm left handed. I work better if I read notes when they're on my left side. Sorry."

Walters snorted at the fussiness he heard in the man's voice but waved his hand carelessly.

"Move it, drop it, hell set it on fire," Walters said. "It's Friday so the damn thing won't work. Piece of crap takes a day off every week, and it's usually on Friday."

McGee nodded innocently then moved the processing unit carefully to the floor out of sight then spread out his laptop and several file folders in an effort to present the image that everything of interest to him was on the desk rather than his main point of interest, which was now on the floor between his feet. As he sat down, he unlatched the chin strap of his helmet hoping the lack of constriction and pressure might lessen his pounding headache. The pressure on his chest did not help either. The body armor did not feel like a reassuring hug. Instead, it was more like a medieval torture device slowly crushing the breath from his lungs as his lightheadedness persisted, and he began to feel insanely warm. Fearing he might pass out, he yanked loose the Velcro strap holding part of the vest in place and placed the bullet proof head cover on the table; however, he instantly felt it placed back on his head and the securing strap along his side tighten once again.

"Keep that on," Gibbs growled.

"Just feeling a little claustrophobic, Boss," McGee swallowed before Gibbs stalked to the mouth of the tent.

"Tony, stay with him and get working on this," Gibbs barked and disappeared on the other side of the flap.

McGee dropped his chin slightly, feeling the scolding but forced himself to concentrate on booting up his laptop rather than the lecture he knew was coming once his work was completed. Tony looked between his partner and front of the tent then sighed.

"Can you get into the other computer and work on it while pretending to listen to the details I read you from our less then illuminating interviews?" Tony asked quietly, figuring it would be a good cover that would allow for McGee to be typing a lot without arousing any suspicion. "That way, if anyone comes in, we're working on our stuff and paying no mind to theirs."

"Yeah, I think so," McGee nodded. "Bend down like you're tying you boot and plug in these cables to the USB ports on the back of the computer I just moved. Keep the cables tucked back so it doesn't look like the two machines are linked."

"You can't do this wirelessly?" Tony hissed quietly.

"Base security dampens wireless frequencies as a security protocol—that's why they only used encrypted satellite phones to communicate," McGee reminded him. "Cables are the only way right now."

"Are you going to copy this one onto yours?" Tony asked as he commenced his slick maneuver of tying his shoes and plugging in the cables without anyone noticing.

Then again, he rouse wasn't precisely needed as they were alone in the tent, but for the sake of not getting caught both played along. When he was finished, McGee's laptop indicated he had open ports to the information he needed.

"Not yet," McGee explained quietly. "I'm going to stalk them for a bit and mirror the hard drive. I'll see what security they have on this that might act as a silent alarm. Once I know that, I'll figure out how not to trip it."

Tony nodded appreciatively. He did not always understand what his partner was talking about when he went all geek on him, but some of it (he grudgingly admitted) was kind of cool, perhaps even giving hints of mild badassery if nerds could ever actually attain that level of enlightenment.

"Pretty slick, McSneaky," he said.

"Well, at MIT, they teach you to expect people to try and spy on your work and steal your code," McGe explained. "That's why we create our own little booby traps—except they're actually called canary traps."

Tony rolled his eyes as he retracted his thoughts of bad ass anything participating in this scheme.

"Naturally, because no programmer from MIT knows anything about boobies," Tony nodded patting his partner on the shoulder. "Yeah, I figured that out about you a long time ago, McGeek."

It was a juvenile jab of sophomoric proportions, but it brought a relieved grin to McGee's face. His nerves were still taut enough that he suspected he could play violin on them if he had a bow; however, Tony's insult wreaked of such normalcy that it gave McGee the first sense of peace and stability since he took off with the Navy pilot from Norfolk 72 hours earlier.

"I will remind you that I go home every night and sleep with a very hot and tattooed woman," McGee offered with a slight edge of superiority in his voice as he began typing. "When's the last time you slept with anyone?"

Tony's brow furrowed as the considered the taunt and considered slapping the grin off his partner's face, but decided there was probably a rule against that in a war zone.

"Married Probie isn't as nice as Perpetually Single Probie," he snarled instead then changed his tone slightly. "Does Abby know where you are?"

"In general," McGee replied. "I promised her I'd be back without incident in a few days. Do me a favor, would you?"

"See that you make it back without incident in a few days?" Tony offered then pet the back of McGee's head. "Fine. But you're going to owe me. You have to name the first little McSuito Abby gives birth to after me—even if it's a girl."

McGee scoffed and rolled his eyes then readily agreed. After all, the terms were easily voided from the start since Abby would give birth to no one as there were no biological children in the couple's future. There was also the more direct issue of Tony's need to protect. Although McGee was nervous and a bit nauseous at being back in a situation not unlike the one that nearly resulted in his death the previous year, there was an extra feeling of security in knowing both Tony and Gibbs were there to watch his back, his front, and both of his sides.

"Okay," McGee nodded as his system let him know he had a full view of the hard drive at his feet. "Start reading me what you've got—don't go too fast. I'm going to need to pause a lot and decipher this code."

"Please," Tony scoffed. "I'm a DiNozzo. We do all the important things nice and slow, the way you ladies like it."

"Right," McGee scowled as he began analyzing.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Abby's Lab_**

 ** _Evening_**

"Abigail?" Ducky called as she entered the darkened lab with Bishop behind him. "Are you here still?"

He heard the gentle shushing sound of the automatic doors at the back of the lab slide open. From the shadows, she saw the pale flap of a lab coat. Bishop approached and found her taking a seat at her desk. Abby turned on the small LED light at the corner of the desk, casting the rest of the room in deeper darkness by contrast.

"I told Ducky that I thought I saw your car in the lot still," Bishop said trying to be casual and friendly. "Are you working on something?"

Abby merely sighed and shrugged hopelessly. The previous three days found her swinging between a listless mopeyness and barely contained frantic worry. The toll of the anxious days and sleeplessness nights was evidence on her face.

"Probably an ulcer," Ducky remarked. "My dear, it does no good to wallow alone in your fears."

As he did so, the sounds of flatulence filled the air. Bishop looked sympathetically to see the forensic scientist's beloved Hippo clutched tightly in her arms.

"I'm sure McGee is with Gibbs and Tony now," Bishop reported. "They're all fine. We would have heard something it they weren't."

Ducky sighed at her phrasing but nodded his agreement.

"All fine like last time?" Abby wondered. "McGee was fine until he was getting ready to leave. It was three days—nearly four—before we knew what happened. Ellie, they're in a war zone. There's nothing fine about that for any of them. It's bad enough we have soldiers there, but at least they're trained for this."

"That is all true, but Timothy is far from alone," Ducky reminded her. "Tony and Gibbs are with him. There is no reason to think anything bad will happen this time."

"There was no reason to think that last time either," Abby replied cradling her hippo. "Did you both need something?"

Bishop looked to Ducky who shook his head in some veiled communication based on a loosely created plan to check on Abby that evening. Bishop sighed.

"Well, I was going to think up something complicated and in need of your skills to keep you occupied so you could get your mind off worrying," the agent admitted. "Ducky said you'd see right through that, and so I'm not going to even try."

"Our goal," Ducky confessed, "was to see if you wanted to come to dinner with us. A hearty meal and good company can help ease your nerves."

"Dinner?" Abby repeated. "You want to go eat? I don't know that I can do that. My stomach is all tied in knots. I kept myself busy all afternoon and didn't have lunch, but I don't know that I'm up for a real meal."

"Ice cream then?" Bishop suggested.

Abby got out of her chair swiftly and threw her arms around the agent as she hugged her tightly.

"You really are a genius," she said gratefully. "I just have to do something before I go."

She walked around the lab aimlessly for several seconds until Ducky questioned her about what she was doing.

"That's the thing," Abby replied. "I don't know. I know I've forgotten something. I've felt that way all day. I just can't put my finger on it. I didn't sleep much the last three nights so I'm not at my best, but still I'm sure there is something I was supposed to do. I've double checked the machines and the upcoming court dockets. I've gone over every report we've released in the last week and all the ones we have pending. I checked my bank accounts to see if I've got a bill that is due. I've looked at all my birthday lists and even internet-based holidays and I can't figure out what it is. I keep hoping that by walking around the lab and looking at things it'll come to me."

Her friends let her make two more rounds of the rooms before one asked the obvious question.

"Nothing still?" the medical examiner wondered.

Abby sighed defeatedly as her shoulders drooped.

"Nothing," she said.

"Well, I'm sure there's an ice cream for that," Bishop nodded.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	40. Chapter 40

**_oOoOoOo_**

Gibbs stood outside the mess tent as he continued his interview with one of the last members of the SEAL team that brought him to the base. Petty Officer Kyle Glick was the newest member of the 16-man team but had been paired with the missing lieutenant for mentoring until Scott disappeared the previous summer.

The February air was dry and nudging toward 70 degrees as the afternoon began to tip toward evening. The shadows were growing long and deep around the camp.

"Carter just sort of got funny overnight, sir," Glick said. "Got some shore leave and when he came back, there were bats in the belfry. He didn't look like he slept. He couldn't stand it if someone got near him if they were out of his line of sight. Hell, he shoved me just for bumping his shoulder when I passed him on a training run. You'd think I'd grabbed his ass from the way he freaked. Captain Baker back at Little Creek made him go to the infirmary. I thought maybe he had some kind of fever that was making him squirrelly."

Gibbs nodded. There was nothing in the man's records that showed he was counseled by a senior officer for behavior or ordered for medical evaluation. From what Ziva reported, the man had sustained some injuries during his leave. Whether those included an undiagnosed head injury was not clear. However, a broken collar bone should have made it on the Navy's radar when Scott returned to duty. Of course, what Glick reported sounded a lot more like post-traumatic stress.

"So that was late last April?" Gibbs guessed.

"Yeah," Glick nodded. "I remember he started making calls a lot, trying to reach someone. We joked she must be a hell of a woman because he was late to three trainings—and he was the one running them. That's when he got his ass in a sling."

"How so?" Gibbs asked.

Again, there was nothing in Scott's file showing any reprimand. There was no record of involvement with civilian authorities either.

"I'm not supposed to know this, but since he took a walk I don't care," Glick replied angrily. "He got called in by the big brass. They didn't leave it to the captain to put the hurt on him; he got reamed by someone with stars. He was at Little Creek talking to an admiral. He was getting dressed down pretty good."

"What admiral?" Gibbs asked, although he suspected he already knew.

"Don't know," Glick answered. "I only overheard them talking. I didn't precisely see the guy. I just know the Lieutenant called the man Admiral."

Gibbs nodded then dismissed the petty officer, who moved toward the doorway then paused.

"I felt sorry for him, thinking he flipped because of his buddy," Glick said. "Guy's got no family in the world except us and some guy he grew up with when he lived on a base in California. He came in one morning, and he was checking his phone pretty intensely so I asked what was up. He was swearing at Facebook, if you can believe it. Apparently, he read something on a friend's wall that said the friend was hurt or killed or something. I felt badly for him—like I said, the guy's got no one. I know I should have reported that. We were in communication blackout conditions—we weren't supposed to do any social media or take or make phone calls—but I didn't want to make things worse by telling the captain Carter broke training protocol."

Gibbs listened to that detail with interest.

"When was that?" he asked. "Before or after Lt. Commander Scott talked to that admiral?"

"Maybe two or three weeks after," Glick said. "Like I said, I felt sorry for him at the time, but it's part of the job. We all make sacrifices when we sign up."

"He ever tell you the friend's name—the one who got hurt?" Gibbs asked.

"If he did, I wasn't listening," Glick reported. "I think the guy must be in the military. Carter upset and saying something like the guy's mother was 10 time zones away in Dallas when it happened and she was on her own. That many hours from the US tells me the guy was overseas; who the hell is that far overseas but us, right? Why? Does that mean anything to your investigation? That tell you where he might be or where he went?"

Gibbs sighed and shook his head, sporting his best poker face.

"Nope," he said dropping his pen on the table. "As expected, none of you has any knowledge of where the lieutenant went or why. Thanks for your time, Petty Officer."

Glick nodded and walked away. Gibbs sighed as he looked at his notes pensively. Ten time zones away from Dallas was overseas—Helmand Province, in fact. In May, Scott's emergency contact was shot in that region just after the lieutenant confronted an unnamed admiral about an unknown subject. Gibbs nodded as a small but possibly vital piece of the puzzle he began constructing nearly a year earlier floated just out of his grasp. He jotted down a note on his pad for research when they were in a place where he could have someone look up the information for him. If Tony and McGee were done with their subterfuge with the computer, they could be heading out soon to get that answer.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

McGee stepped out of the Comm Center to breathe less stale air as he left Tony regaling the two officers inside with tales of his days playing basketball at Ohio State. His distraction was perfectly timed—as most schemes devised by Tony in situations like this were—to keep them paying attention to him rather than McGee as he pulled the cords from his laptop to the tainted computer system still operating with the hidden partition and being utilized by whatever splinter of the cartel was setup at the base. McGee did not need to feign disinterest in Tony's anecdotes as he had heard them all before; however, this time he was unspeakable grateful they were filling the air.

As he stepped outside, the sky was dark and spotted with stars as clouds were just beginning to roll in. The temperature was dropping into the 40s and sent a chill down his neck and spine, but he took a grateful (if slightly painful) lung of the crisp air as he stretched and neck and shoulders with a sigh.

"Agent McGee?" the muscly man approaching him asked.

McGee jumped as the voice startled him. He spied a captain walking toward him. He vaguely recalled seeing the man when Gibbs was talking to the camp brass not long after he arrived. The man was attached to the SEAL team installed there.

"Yes," McGee addressed him. "Can I help you, Captain?"

"Are you related Admiral John McGee?" he asked. "One of the Marines who landed with you claimed he overheard Captain Jackson on The Big Stick say you were a member of the Admiral's family."

McGee offered a sketchy nod. Captain Jackson, who McGee strategically did not talk to when he arrived on the aircraft carrier Theodore Roosevelt (aka "The Big Stick"). Anytime he was onboard a battleship or aircraft carrier, McGee's father was always lurking near the front of his mind, yet hearing the man's name raised still jarred him. Ducky assured him it was just part of the prolonged grieving period those who lost a parent experienced. For McGee, he got the double fun of going through it twice in some respects.

"I'm Captain Loughlin," he introduced himself. "I worked JSOC out of the Pentagon under Admiral McGee until three years ago when I was transferred to oversee this team. So you were his family?"

"Admiral John McGee is my father," McGee said. The urge to say ' _was my father_ ' was strong, but to do so would be incorrect as his death did not alter their blood relationship.

"I was sorry to hear of his passing," Loughlin said with sincerity. "You have my condolences. The Navy lost a giant with his passing. They don't 'em like that anymore."

"So I've heard," McGee nodded and hoped there was no sour ring to his words.

In truth, there was nothing bad to say about the Admiral's career other than a disease cut it short. He was precisely what the Navy needed and wanted in a flag officer. That the same could not be said about his parenting skills was another matter.

Hearing praise for the majesty of his father from naval officers was nothing new for McGee. Part of the reason he kept his family's Navy pedigree quiet was to avoid hearing the accolades and to sidestep any indication that McGee himself expected different treatment based on who his father was. When he was a child, it made McGee immensely proud that so many others thought so highly of his father. When that changed specifically, McGee did not know. He did not disparage the man's career accomplishments. What troubled him was how the man devoted more of himself to that surrogate family than he did to his blood relatives.

"I'm sure you've been told he was a tough officer, but he could lead and he got results," Loughlin said.

"I know he was hard," McGee replied. "He was hard working. Hard to keep down. Hard to please, and hard for other officers to not to respect."

He stopped short of telling the man that John McGee was also hard of hearing when it came to the voices of his children; hard to love when it came to his close family; and hard to forgive for not turning his considerable skills as a leader to be a more involved father and husband to the family he left on dry land so often.

But there was no point in offering those truths.

McGee never spoke ill of his father; his thoughts and observations were not always flattering but those he reserved for his own internal reflection and those closest to him. There was no need to speak disparagingly about the man now. McGee could never fix his relationship with his father. They mended things a little bit in his final months, but it was impossible to overcome more than 30 years of poor communication, lack of understanding, and willful distance. Penny once compared Gibbs to his father and, on the surface they did share many of the same gruff traits. The main difference was, Gibbs cared and McGee knew it and never doubted it. Gibbs didn't come out and say it directly, but it was there (even in the headslaps).

"Your father had dignity," Loughlin said. "He respected the uniform and respected those he served with."

McGee nodded and looked toward the ground instinctively to hide his frustration and regret.

"Yes, more than anyone else on the planet," McGee agreed and hoped his voice didn't contain the edge he usually felt when he encountered one of his father's fleet of admirers. "I appreciate your sentiments, Captain. I suspect the Admiral would probably appreciate them too, although it was never my job to speak on his behalf. I know he was proud of his accomplishments and that he was a good officer. He served the Navy and the nation with honor."

Loughlin nodded.

"Unlike Mr. Scott," he snorted. "You'd never hear of someone like your father running away from his duty. I'm glad someone at NCIS is taking that seriously. We couldn't get the chain of command to give a damn all this time. Like I said, the Navy hasn't been the same since your father passed. He had a few rules of his own. You say you're going to do something, you're going to do it because..."

"Because you finish what you start—no excuses—and you do it to the best of your ability regardless of what it costs you," McGee nodded as he repeated the edict drummed into his head eons ago by his father. "Yeah, I'm familiar with his personal commandments—that's number 3 on the list. I'm actually employing it by being here."

Loughlin chuckled and quirked up an eyebrow in question.

"You the one who was supposed to find Scott in the first place?" he asked.

McGee shook his head sheepishly.

"No, I'm just the one of the guys who started looking for him when an investigation was finally opened," he explained. "But that's not exactly what I meant. I'm here because they needed help and I was available. So, regardless of what it costs me and any excuses I have, I am finishing what I started."

"What's it costing you?" Loughlin wondered. "You giving up a vacation to be here?"

His turned up nose style comment rankled McGee. Normally, he would let it slide. He was no stranger to the arrogance of officers who looked down on any civilian, but McGee didn't feel like taking the snub. He'd flown seven thousand miles, part of it through a typhoon, landed in a warzone and spent the previous two days eating sand in every bit of the MREs he was able to choke down. It was a far cry from what those in-country full time dealt with, but Loughlin was a Captain who spent most of his time in a pristine office at the Pentagon.

"No, just my sanity maybe," McGee chuckled then shook his head as he let his temper flare subside. "Never mind. I shouldn't laugh at that. It's not actually funny, especially with all the guys here who've seen combat. PTSD and SRS aren't joking matters to me or anyone who works at NCIS. We see the aftermath of it fairly often."

The captain cocked his head slightly and narrowed his eyes, taking in the growing dark circles under the agent's eyes and the way he clenched his hands tightly. There was a wariness in his eyes that reminded Loughlin of those who had seen combat.

"It's a gamble everyone who serves takes," he offered casually. "What's the excuse you're ignoring?"

"Didn't have to come," McGee shrugged. "Had the perfect excuse. Last year, a base I was on was attacked. No one was going to make me go back into the field after what happened. But, like my father taught me, if you say you're going to do something then you do it. It came down to one choice: All in or all out. Well, I made my choice so here I am."

Loughlin looked at him thoughtfully.

"You got hit," Loughlin surmised. "How bad?"

"Bad enough," McGee swallowed.

He shivered while trying to shake off the jumble of memories and unconsciously rubbed the area for the entry scar. He could feel the claustrophobic constriction of his body armor but also could hear Gibb's dire warning about removing it.

"Well, you seem to be holding up okay to me," Loughlin noted, a slight change in his tone. Less haughty and more humble.

"I find I can keep my mind off how scared I am by remembering that the fact I can feel scared at all means I'm still alive," McGee said in a voice obvious in its false confidence. "It's not exactly a profound or eloquent sentiment, but so far it works."

Loughlin eyed him hard for a moment, making McGee pause and swallow as he began to regret his fatigue-fueled quip, but he realized a second later he need not worry.

"Your father would be proud of that," Loughlin said with a curt nod.

He then looked at McGee with understanding as he nodded. Combat veterans spoke like that—those that saw the awfulness and found some way to find redemption through survival. Desk jockeys rarely did—and if they did it was for a purpose, often politically motivated. McGee figured that somewhere I Loughlin's mind he had decided keeping in the good graces of an NCIS agent was wise.

"Your trick is the one a lot of guys here use, too, by the way," he offered then gestured to McGee's hand. "It also helps getting through it if you've got someone waiting for you. Married?"

"Yeah," McGee smiled as he twisted the ring on his finger. "Going on four months. Probably hard to believe, but she's actually more anxious about me being here than I am."

"Call her," Loughlin suggested then stripped a device hooked on the edge of his vest. "Here. It's a secure satellite phone. I'm allowed to let my guys use it to check in with home from time to time. You're part of the team right now so it's yours to use if you want. It's around lunchtime on Monday in DC right now. It'll ring through with caller ID showing it's a secure DOD line out of the Pentagon, but you'll be able to talk. No mentioning where you are though."

McGee took the phone and nodded his thanks. Loughlin stepped back inside the Comm Center, leaving McGee alone with the darkness and the stars as he dialed. The phone on the other end answered on the fourth ring.

"Hello?" Abby answered her cell cautiously.

"Hey, Abby, it's me," McGee said warming at the sound of her voice. "Are you free for a few minutes?"

"McGee!" she gasped. "Why are you calling? Are you okay? Are you back? The area code and exchange that popped up on my phone is for the Pentagon. Are you back in DC now?"

McGee sighed and smiled at the frantic sound in her voice. It was not that he found anything humorous in her anxiety; in fact, it stabbed him with a pang of regret for being the source of her worry. But the sound of her voice grounded him with the predictability of her worry and agitation.

"No, I'm still overseas," he said. "I'm on a DOD satellite phone."

"Why are you calling?" she asked quickly. "Is something going on? Do you need my assistance? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he assured her. "I just got a chance to call so I thought I'd check in. How are you?"

It was a lame question, but he honestly just wanted to hear he talk about anything. He could hear about the lab, the weather, her Uncle Harold's strange experience selling a goat while trapped in a hot air balloon—anything that would bring the dulcet tones of her voice to him in this miserable place so far from where he wanted to be.

"I'm okay except, you know, a little frantic still that you're all over there rather than back here, which is where you belong," she said. "Oh, and I'm missing you obviously. You do realize that this is the longest I've gone without seeing you since last year when… you know. And before that, the last time I went this long without seeing you was when you were in Somalia. I don't like thinking about either of those times, Tim."

"Me either," McGee scoffed lightly. "Other than your normal worries, how are you?"

"Lonely," she sighed. "No one's here at the office. I mean, okay, the rest of the agency is here, but you guys are all there. Ellie's been in Fairfax testifying the last few days, and when she is around she's been in MTAC. Ducky and Jimmy doing orientation training with the latest crop of NCIS recruits. That leaves me alone with the lab rats."

"Lab rats?" McGee repeated. "When did you get rats? And, I guess more importantly, why?"

"No, not real rats," she reported. "That's what Larry, Mo and Curly decided they want to be called. They were tired of Tony calling them The Three Stooges or Abby's Angels. So, they're The Lab Rats now. They even made themselves T-shirts. They started a bowling team with the techs in the evidence garage. They've challenged Sister Rosita's team next week to raise money for 10th Street Youth Center's basketball program. Will you be home to come watch?"

The hopefulness in her voice brought a smile to his weary face and crushed his heart at the same time as he pictured her, wide eyed and eager with an anxious grin waiting for his response and believing wholeheartedly that he couldn't possibly refuse.

"I don't know," McGee sighed. "I hope so. Things were going a little slow. If we can finish up the stuff we're doing, I think we'll be heading out to the carrier tomorrow. I'll let you know when we're feet-wet."

He could hear the smile in her sigh and half chuckle.

"Feet-wet," she coed as she repeated his words. "It's pretty sexy when you talk field-operative like that, Special Agent McGee. It makes me miss you even more."

McGee blushed and ran his hand through his hair, suddenly highly conscious of the fact that his helmet was still sitting on the desk inside. However, as Gibbs was in there as well and had not stepped outside to secure it to his noggin using a K-bar, he figured he was not in too much trouble. He cleared his throat to stop any additional thoughts from her along the current line.

"I should remind you that this is a secure phone, which means people at the DOD and NSA are listening," he warned lightly. "Besides, there won't be anything appealing about it when I'm green and trying hard not to puke my guts out. The storm might be gone, but it's still the Indian Ocean so things are choppy out there. I know it's considered safer if we're on the carrier, but despite my taxed nerves, I still prefer being on dry land—and considering where I am, that alone makes me question my sanity."

Abby cooed understandingly but smiled. Gibbs tolerated McGee's bouts of seasickness. Tony ribbed him for them. Abby was the only one who never commented on them beyond feeling badly for him.

"Well, then we're still a good match because I'm going out of my mind between worrying about you and missing you," she said. "I can't believe you only left six days ago. It feels like forever."

"I know," McGee agreed then groaned. "I'm hoping for a smoother and quicker trip home. I'm just not sure when that will be precisely, but it should be soon."

"It better be," she said flipping her desk calendar. "Otherwise you'll have missed two of our dates in…."

Her voice trailed off as a date on the calendar finally clicked in her mind and grabbed all of her attention. She blinked several times then chewed her lip.

"Two what?" McGee asked. "Sorry, you got cut off there. I didn't hear all of what you said. Abby? Abby, are you still there?"

"Yeah, sorry, sweetie," she replied shaking her head and chiding herself for the distraction. "I was looking at something that caught my eye. Um, when did you think you'll be back?"

"I don't know for certain," he replied. "A few days—a week at the absolute outside. I'll email you once we get to the carrier and can communicate more freely. Um, I should go now."

"Okay, Sweetie," Abby said sadly. "I miss you. Tell Gibbs and Tony I miss them, too."

"Will do," he replied.

"I love you, Timmy," she said, her voice thick with emotion an on the verge of cracking.

"Love you, too."

"Be safe," she added quickly.

"I will," he promised. "See you soon."

At her desk, Abby chewed on her thumbnail. Math was never difficult for her, in particular simple calculations, but she used her fingers to count backward and verify her tally. A worried furrow creased her brow.

"Okay, another few days and he'll be home," she nodded and exhaled her worry. "That's all. A couple days and then McGee will be home and everything else will be okay."

She slouched in her chair and chewed her lip nervously. Sleep was still elusive and Caf-Pow was her main source of sustenance. She instinctively reached for the large cup then stopped before the straw reached her lips and groaned before tossing it in the trash and putting her head on her desk as she sighed.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

 ** _Four Days Later_**

The team returned to the office looking worn and weary yet relieved to be back. The latest storm had dumped a fresh blanket of snow across the land. It struck an extra deep chill in their bones after the 80 degrees of their layover in Riyadh on the way home.

McGee was struggling to keep his eyes open after thousands of miles of travel, too many days feeling unshakably jittery, and hours of Tony's non-stop chatter. Since arriving at the Navy Yard, his latest subject was the bachelor party McGee never got. He was adamant that they needed to do something—despite McGee no longer being a bachelor—as well as give him a proper return being a full-time field agent (or "Probie Part Deux" in Tony parlance).

"It's a simple yes or no answer: Do you have plans this weekend?" Tony asked as the elevator chimed upon reaching the floor for the gloriously orange squad room. "You weren't down with my Vegas bachelor bash, fine, but the least you could do is hit Atlantic City with me. Come on, it'll be fun. You, me, a little card counting action at a casino. What do you say?"

"We're just getting home," McGee replied. "I'm exhausted. I'm freezing and I've spent every moment of the last week with you."

"Your point?" Tony shrugged. "Those first two sound like whinning, which you do a lot. The last part, however, is a gift. Do you know how many people would love to spend a week having Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo just a quick reach away?"

He put his arm over McGee's shoulders and tugged him closer. McGee shrugged him off rigidly and pushed him away, expecting some sort of juvenile retaliation.

"If there are so many, go find one of them," McGee said then groaned as even he heard the whine in his voice. "I can't just agree to go to Atlantic City with you, Tony. I don't know what's going on this weekend. I'd have to ask Abby."

Tony scoffed and rolled his eyes while snapping his hand and making a taunting whipping noise. McGee clenched his jaw as the elevator door's opened.

"I'm not asking her permission," McGee insisted. "I have to ask if she has anything planned for this weekend that involves me."

"So if she says you can go, you'll go?" Tony inquired. McGee sighed then sort of nodded. "Then how exactly is that not you asking for her permission, Probie?"

Gibbs paid them no attention as he led them into the squad room and nodded at Bishop, who was at her desk despite the late hour.

"What are you still doing here?" he asked.

"Waiting for all of you—Director Vance wanted me to remind you that he gets an in-person brief tonight," she answered apologetically. "Did you have a successful trip?"

"Stop brown-nosing," Tony grumbled. "We didn't bring you anything. That's McGee's fault. He said you got out of going so you shouldn't get any presents."

"I did not," McGee disagreed.

Gibbs glanced toward the upper floor as their squabbling continued. He went to his desk apparently unconcerned and uninterested in his directive to report in. Bishop turned her attention to Tony and McGee.

"You both look like you got some sun," she said. "That's a nice change from what we've been getting."

McGee was inclined to agree that it was a change but wanted to assert that to him, at this point, snow was preferable. He was about to do so when he turned just in time to see Abby throw her arms wide and crush him in a desperate hug.

"Finally," she cried as she held on tight.

"Hi, Abby," McGee greeted her with strain as she squeezed him. "Ow. You're strangling me."

"I can't kiss you in the office so this has to do for now," she muttered into his shoulder.

In truth, he did not mind being crushed by her in this way. It was actually a tamer greeting than he expected. He was also pleased that this meant Tony owed him $20 for a bet made as they left the base in Norfolk 90 minutes earlier. Tony felt certain Abby would be waiting to ambush McGee at home with her affections. McGee was certain, without a shred of doubt, that his wife (and he still grinned idiotically whenever he said or thought those words) would be in the squad room waiting to pounce. He made victorious eye contact with Tony, who rolled his eyes then stripped a bill from his wallet and slipped it to McGee as the embrace continued.

"Ahem," Tony said clearing his throat pointedly. When it did not have an immediate effect on gaining Abby's attention or getting her to let go, he did it again louder. "AHEM! Oh, come on you two. Some of us have no warm body to muckle onto right now. Ellie?"

"I'm not hugging you, Tony," she shook her head.

"I didn't ask," Tony scoffed. "I mean, you agree with me right? We don't need to see this kind of display of affection. Boss, don't you have a rule about this kind of thing in the office?"

"Abby," McGee said. "Tony feels left out. Any chance you can let him know you missed him, too?"

She let go reluctantly then offered the senior agent a warm but less desperate hug.

"Okay, well," Tony began then groaned. "Um, I always forget how strong you are."

She released him then settled herself on McGee again as she offered a tired but relieved look at Gibbs and waved slightly to him.

"Alright, pack it in for the night," Gibbs said as he looked at his two weary agents. "Nothing more we can do now. You two, get some rest. Monday morning I want reports first thing. Ellie, go home."

"What about Director Vance?" she asked as she cut her eyes toward the mezzanine level.

"He can go home whenever he wants—that's one of the perks of being the director, I guess," Gibbs said as he sat in his chair and turned on his desk light.

His team straggled to the door and threw a parting glance his way. Tony was yawning and offering suggestions about the office providing a chauffeur service after overseas deployments. Bishop began giving them a brief rundown of events in the office while they were gone as they stepped into the car. McGee, head tipped back against the elevator, closed his eyes and appeared to be asleep on his feet as Abby nestled herself quietly under his arm and huddled close. The dark circles under her eyes, a set to match McGee's own, spoke of worry and sleeplessness.

Gibbs watched them go and let the quiet of the nearly empty room settle over him.

"This your understanding of the word immediate and in person tonight?" Vance asked as he appeared near the partition beside McGee's desk.

"Night's not over yet," Gibbs said.

"I read the preliminary reports your team drafted," Vance continued and received a questioning look from Gibbs. "What? You think McGee is the only who can look into places he shouldn't on a server?"

Gibbs sighed. He had not read the preliminary reports. He got oral briefings from his agents. He did not understand most of what McGee said about the computer details, but he did understand the bullet point summary her offered: He installed a bot agent to leech information off the compromised computer. Whatever the ring did from that terminal would be invisibly reported back to the NCIS cyber unit where they could track and analyze the code and report on shipping logs and money transfers.

"We'll have them within a month," Vance predicted. "Well, most of them, as long as no one finds our bug."

"We've got more than that," Gibbs said. "That'll give you the money trail and some of the locations—not a bad haul. What we want are the guys in charge."

"So what is it you have that makes you sound confident we can get them now?" Vance asked as he approached Gibbs's desk and lowered his voice.

"I need to know a certain admiral's whereabouts during the month of April and the reason he was on a carrier in the Arabian Sea with his cardiologist in May," Gibbs said. "I'd also like to know if he ever was in the chain of command of Lt. Commander Carter Scott."

"This is about Porter again?" Vance guessed.

"I'll have Bishop look it up, but I think it's time we rock the boat a bit so maybe you should ask, too," Gibbs said. "It's one thing if we check it out in the background. It might rattle someone if he knows the question is coming from the upper floor."

Vance nodded, seeing the strategy in the scheme but not yet convinced the time had come for that kind of action. He was concerned that they did not have enough tangible evidence to start fishing openly and making accusations.

"We've talked about Moby Dick haven't we, Ahab?" he asked.

Gibbs chuckled and shook his head as he grinned slightly.

"The Pequod had bad voyage, but there really was a white whale, Leon," he said as he turned off his light and made to leave. "Besides, you're the captain of this ship. I'm more like Queequeg."

Vance snorted as he watched the man go.

"A savage harpooner from an imaginary land?" the director called. "It's an apt description for a Marine sniper."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Abby and McGee's Home_**

Abby drove them home, remaining silent all the way, which McGee appreciated. He was beyond tired. He was bone weary—an exhaustion he hadn't felt since he was released from the hospital the previous May. He wasn't sure if he was awake for the entire 20 minute drive home, but when they arrived he entered the house and felt an immediate sense of relaxation.

As they arrived, Abby led him upstairs to their room without a word. He was considering just sleeping in his clothes when she flipped on the light near her side of the bed then went instantly into the bathroom and turned on that light as well. She stepped out a second later holding up a white and pink box the size of a package of cold medicine.

"What's that?" McGee yawned.

"This is a pregnancy test," she said, tearing open the box.

All fatigue fled from his body. His eyes opened wider and he blinked rapidly.

"A what?"

"A pregnancy test," she said. "I bought four days ago and held off taking it until you were home."

"Okay, why?" he blinked. "Why do you need that?"

"Because I'm worried about the weather, McGee," Abby replied flatly. "Why do you think?"

"But you're not pregnant," he shook his head. "Are you?"

"That's what the test is for," she replied then stepped into the bathroom.

"Whoa," he shook his head and stood at the threshold of the closed door. "Um, why do you think….?"

"Remember how a few days before you left, I kept thinking I was forgetting something?" she called through the closed door. "Well, it wasn't a bill or an appointment I missed. When I was talking to you on the phone and I realized that you were probably going to miss our date night, I took a good look at the calendar it finally clicked. I kind of lost track of time lately and…. Well, I'm late."

McGee blanched and shook his head as he tried to wrap his head around what she was saying. Just a day earlier, he was in the middle of the Indian Ocean aboard a warship after setting a trap to ensnare an old and complex drug ring. Now, he was sitting in his home hearing the last thing he expected to hear from Abby…. ever.

"So you're saying…," he began as the door opened abruptly and she stepped out.

"I'm just saying that I'm late," Abby said frankly. "Like 11 days, which could mean nothing since I've been stressed a lot lately between worrying about you while you were waiting to hear about your re-instatement and then flat out worrying about you when you got sent overseas immediately. Oh thank god you're home."

She hugged him roughly bringing an uncomplicated and grateful smile to his otherwise confused face.

"Okay, but for most of this week, you've been wondering and yet you've waited all this time not knowing?" McGee asked, finding that yet another bizarre twist to the day. "Since when do you wait for answers that you can get readily?"

She offered him a careworn and worried expression as she shrugged.

"I didn't want to be alone when I did this," she admitted in a small and fearful voice. "I figured you had a right to know as soon as I did. I didn't want to do the test alone, find out it was negative, then tell you afterward I went through this without telling you what I thought was going on. That doesn't seem fair to you, me withholding information like that. But I couldn't tell you while you were gone. You didn't need to be distract with all the craziness of being in the middle of a warzone."

He sighed and tried explaining that there was no craziness—not the kind she meant—during this trip. If allowed, he would have explained to her that he found being in the middle of a SEAL training tended to be one of the safest places on the planet if you were not their target or support. However, that was entirely outside the scope of her clearance and the topic of this conversation.

"With you here with me," she continued to explain, "if the result is positive, then you find out when I do. If it's negative… well, the same thing. It just seems better to do it this way."

He nodded, appreciating both her logic and the emotion that was fueling it, but he remained amazed she still held off getting the answer she obviously needed. The way her voice quaked and cracked as she grappled with the immensity of the possibilities made him ache for her. Agitation, frustration and worry were things Abby felt often; straight up fear was not. No one liked being afraid, but the emotion so completely crumbled her vast network of shields and armor it always left her looking and sounding fragile.

"So, um, what do you want the result to be?" McGee asked cautiously as she wormed out of his embrace and began to fidget and pace.

"Accurate," she said firmly while wringing her hands.

"No, I mean…," McGee said softly. "Do you want it to be positive or negative?"

"I don't know that this is about what I want; it's about what I can handle," she shook her head. "Creating human life was not on my radar—like ever. We talked about maybe someday adopting because there are so many kids out there who need a home. I never even thought about having a baby myself. So, I guess if the result is positive, I'm going to be freaked out and scared."

"Okay," he sighed, "then we'll hope this is a false alarm and that the test is negative."

"We?" she questioned as she looked at him sharply. "Is that what you want? You want it to be negative?"

"I want it to be whatever is best for you," McGee said. "Abby, I'm not invested in a specific result here."

"What do you mean?" Abby asked. "Tim, I saw the look on your face. When you heard me say what was in that box, you were startled, but you also smiled. You tried to hide it, but I saw it. The possibility made you happy. Then I felt terrible because the possibility terrifying me made you smile. Oh my God this feels so confusing. I don't want to afraid, and I don't want you to be disappointed."

He sighed as the hint of a sad grin ghosted across his face as he tried to wrestle it into submission.

"I admit I won't be upset if it's positive, but I won't be overly disappointed if its not," McGee said. "I know I can get over it being negative. What concerns me more right now is: If it turns out positive, what will you do?"

Abby scoffed then threw her hands in the air and tugged frustratedly on her braids before she sighed deeply.

"Freak out, of course, at least initially," she shrugged. "Then I'll… I'll do what I usually do when I'm confused and lost and get something unexpected thrown at me. I'll do research; I'll get familiar with every nuance and detail of the process, and I'll start getting prepared for it."

"Research and preparation?" he repeated as his brow wrinkled in a mixture of confusion and mirth.

He fought hard not to smile at the rational and clinical approach she was taking. It was both a sign of the scientist in her and the level of fear she was feeling. Abby retreated into the rigid precepts of scientific method when the world around her was chaotic.

"The research part shouldn't take long for you to get spun up," he said lightly. "I'm pretty sure you passed human biology in junior high."

"Well, it's not really as simple as that, McGee," she began a rambling lecture as though explaining some forensic finding that was deceptively complicated. "Human gestation is normally a 40 week long process, but by the time the woman finds out she often has only about 36 weeks left—thus the classically inaccurate 9 month timeline. Even I had the extra weeks, which obviously I would not, that's not a whole lot of time to fully comprehend the colossally intricate chemistry behind every aspect of such sophisticated multilevel cellular mitosis. And… Why are you smirking?"

He shook his head then pulled her into a hug to stop her pacing rather than explain how amusing he found her hyper-rational and empirical approach to the situation. His heart was racing, and it was taking all of his abilities to keep Abby from wearing a hole in the floor.

"Because you're acting a little nuts right now," he said kindly as he kissed her forehead as he felt her trembling in his arms. "How long do you have to wait before the test is done?"

"The test is already done," she answered fretfully as she clung to him. "It only takes 20 seconds to get a result. I just didn't wait to look at it because I wasn't ready. I know it's just a test result, and I look at test results all the time. Only, those are never about me. Well, once they were, when I found out my mother wasn't my mother and that I was adopted. So I just need… this."

"Do you need me to look?" he asked quietly.

"No," she took a deep breath. "I can do this."

She stepped away from him and squeezed his hand briefly before walking to bathroom again. He watched as she peered down at the testing strip. She froze in place with her hands braced on the sink for a long moment as the tension finally dropped from her shoulders. She exhaled the breath she had been holding then turned abruptly and, while sporting a genuine smile with the hint of tears in her eyes, thrust herself back into his arms. She buried her face in his chest and sighed contentedly as she loosed a nervous laugh.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come.


	41. Chapter 41

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _McGee and Abby's Home_**

The sinking feeling in McGee's stomach was swift but manageable. He only had a few moments for his mind and heart to flutter with the possibility, but when reality stormed back in that stopped. It's leaving left an ache, but he knew that feeling would fade nearly swiftly as his hope had risen. He swallowed dryly and did his best to erase any hint of disappointment from his face as the irrational feeling of loss slowly subsided in his chest. It was being rapidly replaced by the weariness from his travel as the bone crushing fatigue he felt upon arriving home crashed over him and fueled his internal justifications for why this was a good outcome.

They were not ready to be parents.

Their jobs were time consuming and demanding.

His was dangerous at times, and he had just stepped back into that world willingly.

Abby was not looking to have a child. When the subject of a family first came up between them in the fall, she voiced concerns about her age and not knowing her genetic background—that's what spawned the adoption discussions.

Her devotion to the idea that the solution to the question of a family might be that someday they could adopt was commendable. She wanted to give a child left behind the chance she received when she was adopted. It really was the only rational and logical solution to their situation in her opinion.

Each of those thoughts rolled through McGee's mind and were true and good reasons why not having a biological child of their own was it was okay. Those facts made the negative test results easier to swallow—or so he kept telling himself. Each of them would in time, McGee knew, help lessen the sting he felt.

"See, it's all okay," he said softly as he rocked her gently in his arms as he did his best to keep his voice steady and without any sorrowful tones. "False alarm. You were worried for nothing. There's no reason to freak out. Everything is fine."

Abby looked up at him with a muddled expression that was eager and worried as she spied the sadness in his face. She shook her slowly.

"The test came out positive," she said with tiny tears squeezing out of her eyes. "I'm pregnant."

"What?" he blinked. "It… it… it… What?"

"I'm pregnant," Abby again chuckled nervously as her voice cracked and tears leaked from her eyes.

"You… you… you are?" he gaped as he blinked rapidly. "But you… You're not freaking out. You were smiling and… and… and…."

"And I think you're doing the freaking out for me right now," she observed.

"Well, yeah, because you said you would, but now…," he shook his head furiously. "I don't understand."

"I don't either," she sniffled then ran her hands over her face and through her braids. "I am freaked out, and scared and confused, but I'm also, I think, excited, which is unexpected on the whole issue of me being… expecting, which is not a good thing… I think."

McGee gaped and had to search to find his voice as the shock of the news melded with the exhaustion from his trip making his head cloudy but alert. His mind was blank other than her words telling him he would be a father. He froze and just stared at her.

"Okay, you need to breath, Tim," Abby commanded.

"You're not upset?" he managed to ask as he found his voice.

"No," she shook her head. "Not exactly. I'm… shocked but that's mostly because I didn't think I would be excited. In fact, I was certain I was going to be devastated."

"But you're not?" McGee blinked.

"For the first couple seconds after I saw the result, I was terrified," she admitted. "And then this other feeling just sort of overwhelmed that one and just took over."

"What feeling?" he asked.

"I can't explain it really except it felt like this," she said then responded with her lips without using words.

After a respectable interval of communicating that passionate feeling, they parted breathlessly and Abby found herself gazing at his loopy expression. She could see him struggling to process the news while his tired eyes were forced open by surprise, elation and confusion.

"That is," he agreed while sporting a dazed look and tone to match, "a hard to describe feeling."

"Oh, look at you," she giggle as she sniffled then brushed tears from her face. "Timmy, you're too exhausted for this right now. We're both too tired to think straight."

He shook his head, convinced he could run to the office and back on the adrenaline in his system.

"I'm fine," he said brushing off her concern. "I'm more concerned about you. You're smiling but you're crying, and I know I'm tired, but that just doesn't go together."

She laced her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder as she shudder and took a shaky breath.

"I'm scared," she admitted. "We weren't trying to have a baby. I haven't had any genetic testing done. There could be a host of things wrong."

"Or nothing wrong at all," he said encouragingly.

Abby sighed and stroked his cheek. She knew he did not want to hear any bad news or any possibly that bad news could come in the future, but those thoughts were churning in her mind. She wasn't some 20-something with factory fresh parts. There was also the issue of what her family tree actually held as she did not know a thing about the previous generations.

"Honey, I hope that's true, but we both know that reality and hope don't always hang out together," she said sadly. "I know you don't want to think about that. I'd rather not either, but we'll have to."

McGee nodded and sighed, seeing the logic even if he didn't like it and feared it.

"If you're worried and scared, then why did you smile?" he asked.

"Right in the middle of my freak out about seeing the results, something just hit me," she sniffled as she caught herself on the verge of chuckling in a giddy fashion. She sat on the bed and buried her face in her hands. "There was suddenly this picture in my head of this teeny, adorable, little face with my eyes and your nose. Our own little… McScuito, and she was perfect."

He raised his eyebrows at her confession and the name. He had much to say about both, but something else tumbled out of his mouth first.

"My nose?" he remarked as he squinted in confusion as he took a seat beside her.

"I've always thought you had a cute nose," she looked at him affectionately and pinched the end of it. "I must be losing my mind. I can't imagine us doing this and at the same time my heart feels like it can't wait to meet her. My mind is telling me that we are not ready for this and there is greater chance that it will go wrong than right, but then my heart says we're smart, caring people and the world needs more people like that. I don't want to get my hopes up and keeping looking forward to meeting her if it's just never going to happen."

McGee nodded as he held her close as his heart continued to beat excitedly; although, there was also a steady thrum of worry setting in as well. If not for the fact that he was so supremely tired and consciously in need of sleep, he might have wondered if he was dreaming. Of all the things he thought might happen when he returned home from Afghanistan, finding out Abby was carrying their child was not one of them. Finding out Abby had rescued white rhinoceros from Pennsylvania Avenue and named it Leroy Anthony so she could keep it as a pet in the backyard would have seemed more likely.

"I think we just need to take it one step at a time," he said. "Step one, the test, is done."

"The first test," Abby corrected him. "I'll make an appointment to see my doctor this week and get it confirmed. After that, there will be more tests. I'll need to research what those are. Timmy, I'm happy that you're happy, but just… keeping mind that this could still all fall apart. It's not a done deal yet. Not even close."

He wanted to tell her not to think like that, to be positive, but Abby was the most positive person he knew. If she was hesitating and worrying, then it wasn't something he could just cajole her out of with platitudes. Still, he didn't think there was any harm in embracing hope.

"I don't think there's anything wrong with focusing on why you were smiling," he said. "We don't have a concrete reason to worry yet; we just have some questions that need answers."

She smiled bashfully and nodded as she sniffled and smiled yet again as she rested her head on his shoulder while he put his arm around her.

"When I can get a thought in that isn't about worry or panic, I keep thinking how badly I want to help her with home and school projects," she said in a half-chuckle, half-sob. "Part of me wants to make an agreement now that you can take math and English, but I'm claiming dibs on all the science—all of it, every single class: Earth science, Biology, Chemistry, Physics. Every one of them."

He wanted to object and remind her that one of his degrees was in biomedical engineering, but he did not want this to devolve into pitting degree against degree and school against school. The last thing they should be doing that night was defending their alma maters. McGee chuckled at the predictability of it as the hazy fatigue from his travel started to siphon off the adrenalin that had flooded his system. His head was swimming and cogent thoughts were becoming a struggle.

"Homework?" he remarked, smiling at the innocence of it.

"Well, yeah, next to riding a bike that's like one of the best part of being a kid—going to school and learning new things all the time," Abby said as she pointed an accusing finger at him as she grinned from her lips straight up to her tear filled eyes. "You're thinking about it, too, now. I can see it in your eyes. You were about to say three little letters to try and take my spot as her science partner."

McGee shrugged and smiled bashfully in silent admission even though he had been specifically avoiding the letters MIT.

"Why do you keep saying _her_?" he wondered.

"Well, my instincts tell me our baby is a girl," she said then groaned and crumpled over her knees in a heap on the bed. "I'm sorry, Timmy. I have to stop doing this. _Our baby_. I know it sounds great, but we don't even know if…"

McGee sighed and pulled her close and made soothing sounds as she wept quietly. Her tears raced down her cheeks, onto his neck and soaked into his shirt.

"Here's what I know," he said. "Or I guess it's more accurate to say it's what I believe. First, it's going to be okay. I can't prove that to you or tell you how I know, I just do. Next, the baby is not a girl, Abby. A girl would be great, but impossible because every first-born in the McGee family, for like 8 generations, has been a boy—even me, who side- stepped every other McGee family tradition. Face it. The odds are against your gut instinct."

She scoffed as she lifted her head. Her reddened eyes were growing puffy from the tears and her lack of sleep over the previous week. She wrinkled her nose in disagreement as she shook her head defiantly.

"Well, seeing as my gut is the condo for our little bundle of joy, I think it counts more than your 8 generations of sheer luck," she challenged. "The first-born in the Scuito family was a girl."

He nearly opened his mouth point out that she was adopted but stopped himself. That was half the cause of her worries. There was also no reason to emphasize it. Nor was there a reason to start a pointless, nonsensical debate. The issue of the baby's sex was obviously already decided. Therefore, there was only one rational way to deal their difference in opinion that would bolster her spirits and keep her in better frame of mind.

"Wanna bet?" he offered. "Lifelong bragging rights for who was right about this—my empirically proven family history against your wishful thinking."

Abby huffed as she brushed her remaining tears from her face. She shook her head.

"Getting your shield back and playing international crime solver made you feisty again," she remarked.

"I thought we agreed that I'm determined not feisty," he said through a yawn that drew a heavy sigh from her.

Abby cupped his cheek comfortingly then nudged him to lay down.

"What you are is exhausted," she said. "Timmy, I meant it before, you need to get some rest. You look awful. You need to sleep or you'll get rundown and sick. Don't give me a reason to worry about you, too."

He considered telling her he did not feel like sleeping, but the pull of unconsciousness was strong and the worry in her words was real. Rather than argue, he simply tugged her closer to lay with him, wrapping his arms around her as she nestled her head on his chest and sighed.

"I can think of far better things to do with you right now than sleep," he said tiredly as his lids began to lower against his well. "As far as my head is concerned, it's 4:30 tomorrow morning not 7 o'clock tonight. I'm fairly certain that if I let myself fall asleep right now, I'll wake up in two hours like it's morning."

"Uh huh," she said doubtfully. "You do that. When you wake up, we can find something else to do in bed rather than sleep."

She chuckled at her invitation, expecting to get a response. When none came, she lifted her head to see his eyes shut fast. It was a telling sign for how weary he was and how much her news shocked him and drained him. Frankly, she was amazed he had been able to stay awake long enough to find out the test results. He was running on reserves he simply did not have at the moment. With a sigh filled with her fears, her relief and her fatigue, she disentangled herself from his arms and turned off the lights. She then grabbed a blanket from the foot of the bed and draped over both of them as she placed her head on his chest.

Listening to the steady and strong rhythm of his heart was one of the most soothing sounds she knew. When they started dating over the previous summer, she wondered if her fascination with the sound was a lingering fear reaction to the fact it nearly stopped for good when he was hurt. After a while, she realized that was not it at all. It was the actual sound itself. It was as if it called to her, spoke to her, in words she did not know but could understand all the same. Even now, at night when she got restless, she would cuddle close and listen with rapt attention. His heartbeat was audio melatonin for her as it was the only thing that could calm her mind.

The covert camera atop the utility pole across the street, one of several strategically pointed at the house, recorded the extinguishing of the lights and transmitted it, just as it did every image of the McGee home, a via the surreptitiously tapped phone lines to a computer 200 miles south in Norfolk, Va.

The man viewing the screen in the port city stroked his beard then cracked a sunflower seed in his teeth. He spit the spent shell on the floor of his hotel room where he sat watching the rest of the day's recorded footage from the house in Arlington.

"Welcome home, Agent McGee," he smirked at the video feed then shut down his laptop for the night. "Enjoy your evening."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

Morning, for Abby, arrived early. She woke before sunrise to a quiet but windy Saturday. Frost for the expectedly cold weather pressed against the windowpanes as Abby crawled out of bed, leaving McGee to his coma-deep slumber. She went downstairs and huddled on the couch, wearing one of McGee's sweatshirts. Her laptop was cranked up and spitting out reams of information—most of which was not helpful.

There were too many high risk gestational conditions women faced when having a child and those increased with the age of the mother. For all, medical experts emphasized planning prior to conception—genetic testing, supplements, and discussions with medical personnel. Essentially, procreation was a chemical experiment. As with all experiments, it was something the top minds in the field said should not be undertaken lightly or without a plan.

Then again, Abby sighed, there was ample evidence that having no plan was pretty much what most people did. There was also a tonnage of evidence that the majority of the human race, countless generations, existed in defiance of the medical experts.

"This is extremely unsatisfying," she muttered at the many open windows on her screen.

As she chewed on her nail, she heard McGee come down the stairs. She craned her neck to see him rubbing his bleary eyes.

"I was letting you sleep in," Abby said. "Why are you up so soon?"

"Not tired anymore, I guess," he yawned. "How long have you been up?"

"A while," she said as she put her laptop on the coffee table stood up to assess him more directly. "You still look beat. Crash on the couch and I'll make breakfast. I'm thinking waffles."

She started to walk to the kitchen but was stopped. He shook his head and placed his arms around her.

"I can't let you do that," McGee said. "I know you don't like being coddled normally, but our life is anything but normal right now. You don't need to wait on me. Yes, I'm tired, but I'll sleep tonight. You're tired, too, and you've got more going on than I do so you're the one who should be taking it easy on the couch."

She sighed as he pressed her back into her seat on the sofa. Her swirling worry was what gnawed on her the most. Hearing the same feelings coming out of his mouth just made them more real. She tossed a sour look at her laptop for not giving her more helpful answers other than "wait and see."

"I'm not going to put my feet up and eat Klowny Cake so don't even try to make me," she asserted. "I need to go about my normal routine and do what I normally would do. It's a weekend morning. We eat breakfast on weekend mornings."

McGee nodded his agreement and wished the anxiety he saw in her eyes the night before had faded, but if anything it had solidified. He knew the reason. Her magical cure-all for everything, science, had not come through with any concrete or tangible answers. What they had was an issue that needed individualized attention and the only answers they would get would come with time.

"I know you can take care of yourself, and I'm not asking that you put yourself in confinement," he said. "Right now, your job is to take care of yourself and the baby. My job is to take care of you and everything else—that includes getting my own breakfast and yours too, if you will let me."

Abby huffed in a frustrated but surrendering way.

"I happen to like the way I make waffles better," she folded her arms and earned a scoff from him. "I also enjoy making breakfast on Saturdays. I think, if you want to take care of me, you should consider letting me…."

"Abby," he held his hands up halting her counter offer, "I love you but you're also you're a control freak. I know this because I am one, too. The difference is, right now, you need to let go of a few things for a while. I think making breakfast on Saturday should be one of them. Just make things a little easier on yourself, that's all I'm saying. You need to learn to put yourself and the baby first—not everyone else."

She nodded reluctantly. It was not that she didn't want to do what was right; she just didn't see that restructuring her entire life was necessary just yet. Sure, giving up making breakfast was a small thing, but that would lead to bigger things. Bigger things meant longer term plans. Longer term plans meant there was a goal on the horizon.

Until they knew if that attaining that goal was even possible, she did not want to alter anything. Doing so would just make things harder if the plan fell apart and they needed to return to the old routine because there was nothing on the horizon.

"Tim, I know you mean well," she said hugging one of the couch pillows in frustration. "I just think you need to take the advice you gave me last night. One step at a time, okay? There's no reason I can't get breakfast. If the time comes and we need to make changes, we will."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Vance's Office_**

 ** _Four weeks later_**

Gibbs scoffed loudly and laughed in a way that let it be known he was not amused. Vance sat behind his desk with his eyes bulging from anger and outmaneuvering. Parsons, his face pale and stoic, sat opposite the director with his hands folded primly in his lap as he explained the new limitations on the NCIS participation in the ongoing investigation.

"It's our case," Vance asserted. "We handed it to you."

"And thereby abdicated your role as the lead agency," Parsons reminded him. "Director, this was going to happen regardless of when another agency was brought in. No political appointee—whether it is the Secretary of the Navy, the Secretary of Defense or even the U.S. Attorney General—can allow in-house investigators be the lead on crimes of this scope in their agency.

"It's not NCIS that's under investigation," Gibbs said.

"To those who understand the distinction between the Navy itself and this agency, that is understood," Parsons said. "To everyone else in the country who will only hear about two minutes of explanation before answering a polling question or calling their congressional representatives, there is no difference. The word naval is the first part of your name. Do you want another special counsel assigned to oversee and investigation your investigation? Come on, Gibbs. I thought you liked to get things done efficiently."

"I do," he replied. "You've been dragging your feet since July. How does this make it go faster?"

Parsons sighed and explained again why he involved the FBI and placed them as the lead investigative arm of the inquiry. Their reach far exceeded NCIS domestically. For any foreign leads on the story that had Navy and Marine connections, NCIS would be utilized to its fullest extent.

"So we're you're errand boys," Vance surmised. "You say jump and we ask how high and when. Is that the gist of this?"

Parson sighed and smiled thinly. He was never going to be well-liked in this office. He was tolerated and at times necessary, but his initial introduction to them had been folly. He tried to topple a chess piece before he fully understood its importance. It was a mistake he would not make again.

"Your agency is too important to let small minds with big vendettas use this to leverage control of the outcome," Parsons said. "There is a lot of money involved in this scheme and money grows roots into politics. The FBI is big enough hand strong enough to withstand whatever attacks that creates in an effort to shut down this investigation. As I said, I convened a taskforce. NCIS is a player at the table. The Office of the Inspector General is at the head—me—but the FBI is my right hand. I chose my team carefully. I specifically chose Supervisory Agent Tobias Fornell to assist me to help ease the transition from NCIS to the FBI."

Gibbs scoffed. If he thought just be choosing Fornell that NCIS would go quietly and meekly to the corner, he was sadly mistaken. Fornell was good—Gibb's preferred FBI contact—but he was still FBI.

"You owe us information," Gibbs said.

"About Admiral Porter and Lieutenant Commander Scott?" Parsons said. "Porter's full schedule is classified, but I can give you a look at it for the days he was stateside in April and May. As for Scott, there is not much more I can tell you. You've spoken to his platoon—nice cover by the way—I hope whatever you did over there was worth putting yourselves through that trip. I thought telling you last year that Agent McGee was specifically targeted would have served as sufficient warning. As it did not, I took appropriate preventative action with the State Department. His passport is flagged to prevent personal travel, and he is suspended from overseas duty."

Gibbs's expression grew hard. He did not send McGee overseas this time. That was Vance's call; however, if there was credible evidence that the agent was a target, the agency had a right to know what that was. Gibbs' stare demanded it.

"Your agent was targeted overseas once before," Parsons repeated. "I told you that months ago; I told Agent DiNozzo that months before I told you."

"The man who shot him is dead," Vance said. "It appears to us the hit was actually on Sgt. Marrovich in the Comm Center that day. Our only question is whether his wife ordered it or if his partners in this drug ring did. Agent McGee got in the way."

Parson scoffed.

"There were two shooters in that room," he said. "Look at your ballistics and report from the scene that day. One shooter got Marrovich. What was the other one doing before Lance Corporal Demming arrived and shot him? Oh, and if that information isn't enough, there is the issue of the missing Lt. Scott. Your own report from your recent interviews says he went off the deep end after learning of Agent McGee's injuries."

Gibbs offered a half nod. The man reacted, badly it seemed, to a friend sustaining life threatening injuries. That he went AWOL soon after seemed to be just another step in whatever had gone haywire in the SEAL.

"Lieutenant Scott holds the exulted post of lead sniper/recon for his platoon," Parsons offered. "While you recently interviewed SEAL Team 4 closer to the Middle East, they were on a training readiness rotation. Our little group of American ninjas is normally focused on Central and South America—a region known for exotic terrain, unstable governments, and a cash crop that makes lots of money."

"Coca plants," Gibbs said flatly quickly getting the reference to drugs, particularly those that lead the drug wars in the 1980s and '90s.

"Heroin is just what you've found in your limited view into this ring's operation," Parsons said. "When it started in the '90s, cocaine was the moneymaker. The Navy component used the blue water fleet out of San Diego and Alameda for transport from our base São Paulo, _Brazil_. Mules recruited by civilian components hauled it there from the labs in Colombia. Evidence I've seen suggests that route is still in operation. It slowed a bit a few years ago when the Reynosa cartel fell apart in Mexico so they lost help with their distribution, but that didn't shut it down."

Vance kept his eyes away from Gibbs, who betrayed no knowledge of why the cartel run by a ruthless brother and sister hell-bent on avenging their father, Pedro Hernandez, whose life was cut short by a sniper's bullet in 1991, fell apart with little warning. Parson watched them carefully then rolled his eyes before Vance leaned forward as he clasped his hands together and lay them on his desk.

"Are you alleging Lt. Scott is a member of this ring and might be targeting his childhood friend for accidentally discovering it?" Vance asked. "I thought Lt. Scott was a victim and a witness in this somehow."

Parsons shrugged as he offered a noncommittal expression.

"Scott as an accessory is an interesting theory," Parsons said unhelpfully. "I guess that's another question I need to ask him if anyone can ever find him."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Tony sat at his desk, swiping the crumbs from his sandwich onto the floor as he finished his lunch. It was a bit lonely in the office that noon-time. Bishop was nowhere to be seen as she was down with Nicki Jardine following up on a case involving theft from the Navy Yard and possible transit locations in the Mediterranean. McGee departed an hour earlier with Abby for lunch—something they did with sickening regularity in Tony's mind. It wasn't like they didn't see each other each night when they went home after all. He had grumbled about it to Palmer and received a consoling lecture about not being jealous of Abby's time with McGee, as if it was in any way possible Tony that felt deprived of McGee's company.

As if on cue, the relatively still-newly-weds exited the elevator with faces flushed from the cold, yet still holding hands. Tony rolled his eyes and gave McGee a stern look.

"Aw, did Timmy need help crossing the street?" he cooed. "Thanks for walking him back here, Abby. Did you make sure no one stole his lunch money at the bus stop?"

McGee rolled his eyes as he scowled at the predictable teasing. Since rejoining the team in field agent capacity, his partner had returned in full force with his ribbing and chiding. It was like revisiting his actual probie days all over again—and he did not find he enjoyed it anymore the second time around. The difference was that he also felt capable of giving a little bit of it back once in a while. He knew Tony much better after 13 years so landing jabs of his own was easier.

"And to think," McGee remarked, "Abby wanted to bring you something from the Cupcake Bakery. See, I told her you hadn't earned it."

Tony's mouth opened, and he scoffed as the hints of a pout furrowed his brow; however, Abby rescued him on the very edge of actual sulking as she held out a crisp, white paper bag.

"Stop it," Abby chided McGee as she drew a small box from the bag. "Since you got stuck here yesterday and couldn't come to lunch with us then, I got you something today. It's called Leprechaun Delight, a lemon cupcake with raspberry frosting. Happy belated St. Patrick's Day."

Tony opened the box and hungrily looked at the delicious offering then felt a slight pang of guilt for poking at McGee. However, that subsided quickly as he recalled it was Abby, rather than her McSpouse, who gave him the treat. Distantly, the elevator sounded signaling another arrival to the room, but he paid it no mind as his eyes fixated on his sugary gift.

"I will pretend I am not Italian while I enjoy this," Tony said as he oo'ed while removing the yellow and pink cake. "Hey, it's not green. I appreciate that, too. Green cupcakes, actually green food in general, gives me the willies some days."

"Yes, I can see how a salad might kill you," Ziva's voice sounded from the edge of his desk.

Tony looked up, startled at her arrival. What was more surprising than seeing her was the item she carried in her hands: a rubber chicken. He shook his head and blinked initially then turned his eyes down to his sugary delight.

"Okay, is there some sort of illicit crystal substance on this cupcake?" he asked as he looked down at it then patted his hands over his body. "Probie, grab a kit and field test this. It must be spiked because I know I'm not dreaming because I'm not naked."

"And we're all thankful for that," McGee answered in a bored tone as he smiled at their guest. "There's nothing wrong with your cupcake."

"So are you telling me that you also see Ziva?" Tony asked as he turned a grin toward their former teammate. "If you say no, I am going home for the day, or checking into an ER for tox screening."

Ziva curled her lip in a way that was supposed to convey displeasure, but it made Tony grin more. He knew the expression well. It was her cloaking expression—the one she wore when she did not want him to think she was entertained by something he said or did. But it was gone swiftly as she turned her gaze toward McGee and Abby.

"I have not seen either of you since just after your wedding," she said. "I hope all is well."

"Yes," Abby said with a stale smile that mirrored McGee's.

"Yeah, everything's good, great even," he replied but his expression made Ziva's radar twitch.

She knew McGee well. His face was the easiest to read of anyone she ever met. There was no pretension in him, no cloaking abilities. That day, she saw a secret in his eyes—one Abby's fleeting but piercing stare made him look away to hide further. Ziva nodded, letting the matter rest. She could causally ask her lunch companion his thoughts to settle her mind.

Feeling left out of the room suddenly gone silent with heavy stares, Tony focused his attention on the visitor and her rubbery companion.

"Nice chicken," he remarked. "Dare I ask? Is he your partner now? Is he Mossad or CIA? Either way, he should register at the front gate. Security, you know?"

"He is a she," Ziva corrected him. "It is a rubber chicken, and therefore a hen not a cock, Tony."

He blinked in surprise then looked from her to McGee and Abby, who were standing still and watching the other two in the room with great attention.

"And you know that how?" Tony marveled as he narrowed his eyes on the item. "It's got no telling parts."

"If it was male it would be a rooster," Ziva said firmly as Gibbs entered the room and nodded to her. "Does your confusion mean you do not know how to tell a male from a female? My, my, the working dog has been lonely."

She clucked her tongue pityingly as she faced Tony and fixed him with her hypnotic look.

"What are you doing with that thing anyway?" McGee asked curiously.

"I saw Agent Balboa in the lobby," Ziva explained with a shrug. "He asked that I place this on Agent Bishop's desk. It is apparently an interior joke."

"Inside joke," Tony corrected her smirked at the familiarity of the moment but felt a twinge in his heart.

Ziva was around occasionally as winter waned and spring approached. She was assisting Gibbs still on his ever spiraling drug case. She did not come out and tell Tony, but it seemed fairly obvious that she had taken a job with the CIA at their Langley, VA facility. He might have done a little searching and perusing of a few systems on his own and determined that she was renting a condo in Reston, Va. Not that he had driven by to check it out… often.

"Where is Bishop?" Gibbs said testily as he eyed the clock.

He had just received a message from the NCIS tip line from a day earlier that should have been brought to him immediately. Instead, it got bogged down in some computer glitch for half of the day and only got to Gibbs when it was routed through Sheila, Vance's secretary. She delivered it to him as he left the director's office following the less than informative chat with Parsons.

"She was heading to see Jardine downstairs," Tony answered swiftly. "Something about talking to someone in MTAC this afternoon on that thing she was helping out with from the base in Naples. I wasn't really listening. Do you need me to..."

"Tell her she needs to be in MTAC to do her stuff with the thing now," Gibbs scowled.

Tony lifted the phone and punched in the analysts' desk number into his and hoped one of them might be able to translate Gibbs' order as he was not the least bit interested in making further inquiry. When that summoned no one, he fired off a quick email.

"And she'll know what your directive means," Tony remarked, giving himself some wiggle room in case the message got as lost as he was.

"Get her up here or I'll make the rubber chicken my senior field agent," he huffed as he tossed a glare toward the mezzanine level.

"Wow," Tony muttered and cast a quick glance at McGee. "A slight to me and you, McPartner. Ellie better get up here or we're gonna be Walmart greeters by the end of the day if Agent Clucky is as finger-licking good as boss thinks."

Gibbs ignored the comment. His morning meeting stripped away what was left of his patience. Parsons was doing a fine job, but he was doing it his way. His way might make things neat, but his way was letting the criminals continue unhindered for too long. These men (and probably a few women) were destroying lives and using the US Navy and Marine Corps to get it done as well as hide.

That, Gibbs decided, needed to end.

Immediately.

Hearing about the connection to the drug trade in the 1990s was in itself not shocking, but being reminded that this monster played some role in the death of his wife and daughter rubbed him raw. Making a decision on the fly to go with his gut, Gibbs turned to look at the one person in the room who (probably) knew very little about what was going on in the closely-held investigation. Abby stood beside McGee still, soaking in the banter and the tension in the room.

"Do you work upstairs now, Abby?" he asked tersely, not missing the instinctive squeeze of McGee's hand over hers.

Gibbs held his grouchy expression in check. McGee's reaction was touching and expected as an offer of support for his wife, but it was also wholly unneeded as Gibbs merely needed to clear her out of the room and did not intent to bark at her further. Besides, if there was anyone at NCIS who never had to fear Gibbs' wrath, it was Abby.

She smiled warmly despite his scowl, beaming at him as though he just complimented her.

"I actually prefer the more civilized atmosphere of crime scene debris downstairs, so if you're offering I have to decline," Abby replied.

She offered the slightest bit of a smirk to her husband. As she turned to leave, McGee made to follow her.

"Going somewhere, McGee?" Gibbs asked.

"Just walking her to the elevator, Boss," he replied and received a warning look from his wife about his new habit of hovering and a glare from Gibbs that made him feel the need to explain. "I know she can find it and operate it on her own. It just seemed like the polite thing to do."

Gibbs snorted as he let his snarl subside as he looked to Abby.

"And you said we're not civilized," the retired marine remarked then gave McGee an impatient hand wave. "Well, hurry it up. We have actual work we need to do up here, too."

"That's right," Tony called after them in an attempt at badly brown-nosing. "And keep it professional near the elevators, you two. We know your history, but this is a place of serious business."

As the couple disappeared, Ziva and Tony exchanged a questioning look. There was something irritated in Gibbs' tone that had nothing to do with a lazy approach to the boundaries of a lunch hour. However, neither thought it wise to seek clarification.

"Serious place of business?" Gibbs repeated. "Is that why Ziva brought a rubber chicken?"

"Serious can have a lot of levels, Boss," Tony offered then eyed Ziva pointedly as he tried to shift the subject and lighten the mood. "Maybe it's a lead or a clue for us. Maybe it's intel. Maybe it's a new fashion, or some sort of investment or retirement plan the CIA is employing. Not that I'd recommend following their lead. You can't trust most investments lately—rubber chicken involvement or not. See, I only put my money in sure things."

"The G-strings of exotic dancers?" Ziva offered but her face reddened suddenly. She placed the rubber toy on Bishop's desk, her old stomping grounds. "I am not here to create a disturbance. Ducky and I are having lunch. He said to meet him here at 12:30. Agent Balboa signed me in in exchange for the delivery."

Gibbs nodded and put the thought out of his mind. It was hard to see her in the room again and hear her bantering with Tony. The urge to send her on the upcoming assignment was strong, but she had no authority. That left him with pairing McGee with Tony. While they had finally slipped back into their former groove for working together, this was not an ideal assignment for the junior agent. Still, Gibbs needed to use the tools available to him. He looked up as McGee returned to the room and began to take off his coat.

"Leave it on, McGee," Gibbs said. "You're going to Woodbridge with DiNozzo."

Tony was up and out of his seat as McGee shrugged back into his jacket. Both looked at their boss for more details.

"Call on the tip line," Gibbs ordered as he held out a slip of paper with the information. "Pamela Reeves was spotted there at the Century Arms apartment complex."

"Reeves?" Tony asked as he looked abruptly at McGee. "That's unexpected. Her last known residence was in Florida. What's she doing here?"

"I don't know, DiNozzo," Gibbs said as he saw a blank look on his senior agent's face. "Maybe that's something we should ask her. If she's there, pick her up."

"What are the chances it's really her?" Tony asked taking the tip memo from Gibbs.

"I believe 50/50," Ziva replied. "Either it is her or it is not."

"I liked you better when you started to use contractions," Tony remarked as he turned a questioning look from Gibbs to McGee and back.

McGee then gave words to Tony's hesitation. While he had no independent recollection of meeting Reeves, he knew now who she was—a therapist from Alameda who was tied up with the cold case. Penny explained to him that Reaves treated him once and likely hypnotized him so that he would forget what scared him and prompted his tight-lipped reaction. He felt violated just thinking about it.

"Um, Boss, you sure I'm the person who should be going with Tony?" he asked.

"Are you questioning my authority or my judgment in sending you?" Gibbs said in a salty fashion.

"Well, the second one, ideally," McGee replied truthfully then ducked his head as the Gibbs glare seared a hole in his chest. "Which I will stop doing right now."

"You're just going to pick her up on our warrant," Gibbs asserted. "No one talks to her about anything other than her rights and the weather until you bring her to me. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," Tony nodded and jerked his head for McGee to follow.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Abby's Lab_**

Abby hung up her coat and returned to her desk following her hectic lunch. She and McGee had actually gone to her second obstetrics appointment. She smiled with relief as the latest round of tests showed normal results and none of the genetic tests so far raised any warning flags. Granted, it was still early. There were still a few more weeks before it would be advisable to tell anyone their news, but she was starting to feel marginally more hopeful than fretful. There was still more waiting to do, something Abby was not good at, but she had it boiled down to a science now. In the time in-between waiting for test results, there was always a little voodoo, some white magic, to practice… just in case. It certainly couldn't hurt. Besides, burning certain herbs around the house was a refreshing change from the cold and stale air of late winter.

Normally, Abby considered herself more of an optimist than her husband, but in this instance his belief and hope that all would be well far outpaced hers. In fact, she felt confident in saying that the tiny bundle of cells, that scientifically couldn't yet be called a baby, intrigued and energized him even more than jetpacks.

 _Rocket belts_ , she automatically corrected herself with a smirk.

It was both adorable and painful to see how excited he was. The pain was more about how devastated she knew he would be if everything fell apart or if something went wrong and her next round of tests revealed problems. He put on a good show for her, not focusing all their conversations at home on their growing creation, but she would catch him looking at her in the evenings once in a while and she knew he was seeing more than the present; he was picture the future, their future with the family he hoped they would have.

So far, however, everything was stellar. She was experiencing fatigue, which was normal. The morning sickness rollercoaster arrived a few weeks earlier, but she had solved that problem with research and observation. The end result was pretty much what women down through the ages seemed to learn instinctively: Eat. As long as her stomach wasn't empty for too long the nausea stayed away. That meant consistent snacks in between her strict schedule for meals. She did not deviate from it for any reason, which was becoming a joke in the lab that she kept crackers in her pocket and seemed to nibble on one every half hour or so.

"Hey, you're back," Bill Curley, one her techs, greeted her as he entered her office. "Shocking news: Larry went home again."

"Why?" Abby asked with concern.

First, she hoped her tech wasn't sick for his own sake. Next, she had been working on some analysis with him. Any bug he caught she would have been exposed to as well. While her doctor's appointment that day turned up no problems, that didn't mean she wasn't incubating something more than a zygote.

"He's a hypochondriac," Curley shrugged. "He said you're coming down with something and he thinks he's coming down with whatever you've got."

The tech and Abby laughed, for very different reasons. Curley enjoyed ribbing his fellow lab mate, much the way Tony harassed McGee in the squad room. Abby's mirth grew out of the sheer impossibility of her twitchy tech sharing the same root cause of her nausea woes.

"I'm pretty sure he's wrong about that," she said simply. "If there's a bug going around, I don't want to get anywhere near it, but I can assure you all I'm not contagious."

"That's what I told him; he just likes the sympathy he gets from the women in personnel when he takes sick leave lately—I think they call it seasonal loneliness disorder," Curley smirked. "Hey, you know anything about an old case file needing us to look at the evidence again? Kevin, down in the evidence garage, said he got word from the director's office to send over 15-3434-3567-8600-1310."

Abby heard the numbers and felt her blood run cold. Her eyes went wide with surprise and she felt sick to her stomach for reasons other than the hitchhiker she carried around with her.

"Why did the Director want that looked at again?" she asked.

"You know which case it is by the number?" Curley shook his head. "You're amazing, Abby. A million case files around here and you know them by number?"

"Just that one," she replied solemnly.

Curley grinned and was about to joke about it but stopped as he saw the paleness on her face and the nervous way she chewed her lip.

"That's Tim's case, isn't it?" he sighed and he nodded his understand. "I'm sorry, Abby. I wasn't thinking. I guess I forgot what happened. I mean, he's back doing his job like it never happened so… I'm sorry."

Abby nodded and started looking through her email. If the director wanted something done with a case, he should have sent word—particularly as it was a case with interest still brewing in the agency. Abby knew the shooters were dead so that part of the case was closed. As she scanned her inbox, she saw nothing pertaining to old evidence being sent for re-evaluation.

Before she could call the evidence lock up for more details, a tech arrived at the lab pushing a cart with several boxes bearing the same case number. Abby reached for the man's table to affix her electronic signature to the log showing she took possession but he held it back.

"Sorry," he apologized. "Orders are to give it to Curley or Larry only. Message we got was they are interested in the ballistics again on this one. It wasn't overly specific. So I guess you're going over everything that has to do a bullet or a gun."

Curley signed for the evidence then began moving the boxes to the lab table. Abby watched him lift off the lids off the boxes as he started picking through the evidence. She kept her distance from the table.

"I don't know why the Director won't let you help," Curley shook his head. "Kevin probably just misunderstood."

"No," Abby said. "He got it right. I can't touch any of this."

"You were the first one to analyze it," he said. "You know the ballistics better than anyone."

She nodded as her mouth and stomach soured with the memory of processing the evidence. Her involvement initially was simply to reconstruct the scene, determine the firing pattern and sequence of events. After that, her focus was more on the computer sent back from the base.

"Back then I was the just forensics specialist assigned to work the case," she offered. "Today, I'm the wife if the man who was in the middle of that nightmare. I can't touch any of it. If I do, and they go to court, it will impugn the integrity of the investigation."

Curley sighed and nodded. It wasn't that he forgot Abby was married to Agent McGee; it just seemed crazy to think she would approach her work any differently on the case due to their relationship. He reached into the next box and encountered the body armor and clothing worn during the attack. He looked over his shoulder at her now slightly green complexion as she stared at the boxes with wide and glistening eyes.

"I've got this," he assured her. "I wouldn't want you to get in trouble with the Director's office. If I run into any trouble or need help, I'll… ask you some vague hypothetical questions that will hopefully point me in a good direction."

He smiled and released a tense breath when she nodded in return then walked back to her office area. It often felt wrong working solo in the lab when Abby was just a few feet away. It felt like he was invading someone else's house and helping himself to a meal. Other times, he wanted her to step in and assist him; half the reason for putting in for the job in the lab was to be mentored by her, but there was no way he could have her participate in this inquiry. He sighed as he pulled out the bag containing McGee's now crusty clothing, glad Abby was behind the sliding glass doors.

In the office, Abby forced herself to take several deep breaths as she put her hand over her belly. There was nothing there to show yet and the churning she felt was nerves in her stomach but that was not the center of her thoughts.

"Your daddy made it through that okay, and because he did, you are here," she whispered. "I want you to be your own person, but there's nothing wrong with being a survivor like your father, too. Sometimes, bad things happen that you can't predict. If you stick around, I promise I will explain that to you and how to deal with it when you're a lot older."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Century Arms Apartments_**

 ** _Woodbridge, VA_**

The rundown apartment building, circa 1960 construction, looked like the kind of place where someone on the run might take refuge. The dingy building had a destitute and defeated air. A quick chat with the superintendent revealed a woman meeting Patricia Reaves' description had recent rented a second floor two-room apartment. Tony and McGee approached the door in the dim hallway.

"Just to keep this easy, your job is to cuff her if she doesn't come quietly," Tony said before he knocked. "No talking. No introducing yourself. I'll take care of that."

"The law says we need to identify ourselves," McGee reminded him.

Tony's interpretation of Miranda Rights, search and seizure law and execution of warrants often left McGee clenching his jaw. He did not doubt Tony was a superior cop. He had natural instincts McGee would never develop; however, sometimes cleaning up after the guy and smoothing out his waves felt like a fulltime job. Then again, without investigators like Tony who pushed the boundaries, a lot fewer criminals would get caught, he reminded himself. As with all things, balance was the key.

"And I will introduce us," Tony said. "We're federal officers with NCIS. I'm Special Agent DiNozzo and you are my partner. The end."

"That does't event meet the letter of the law," McGee grumbled but nodded his agreement all the same.

"Letter of the law," Tony scoffed as he knocked. "Save it for the court room, McLawyer. Pamela Reeves? NCIS, open up."

Surprisingly, the door did open. A woman with thinning gray hair and a heavily creased face stared back at them. She was tiny in stature and had skin that was an unhealthy yellowish color that matched what should have been the whites of her eyes.

Liver and kidney failure, McGee's mind reported instantly. It was a classic polluted complexion seen on hardcore addicts. From the wave of tar and nicotine that wafted from the apartment, she was also a chain smoker—a fact proven when she spoke in a harsh, raspy voice.

"Took you long enough," she growled.

"Ma'am, are you Pamela Reeves, formerly Lt. Commander Reeves of the United States Navy?" Tony asked. She nodded. "I've been looking for you. Will you come with me?"

She folded her arms and offered him a defiant expression.

"What about?" she asked. "If this is that bastard's idea of setting me up good, he's sorely mistaken. This is a hellhole."

"Who are you talking about?" Tony asked and felt McGee's warning eyes on him.

"Paul," she said sourly. "You know what, I don't give a damn. I'm not helping him anymore. I sold my soul for him. I wanted to help people—that's what my goal was. Guys came back from Vietnam and no one knew what to do with them. They wanted to put them away or ignore them. I wanted to help them. I was good at it. I just… got a little lost in their pain."

She rubbed her forearm as she spoke, pulling up the sleeve a little to reveal scars from track marks.

"That why you started shooting up and self-medicating?" McGee asked, unable to stop himself.

He received a reprimanding nudge from Tony but kept his eyes on their subject.

"I've got a host of reasons," she said. "Sometimes, when I feel like blaming someone else, I blame them. Other times, I just blame my memories—all the ones I tried to erase. I hurt more people than I helped. I'll be damned if that's what he wants me to do again. I don't care how damn important he is now. I know he's been watching me. I can feel it. I've seen a car passing by, the same car. I'm being followed and suddenly you all show up? This is just like he did it last time. Well, enough is enough. You can tell the son of a bitch to screw himself this time rather than who he normally screws."

Tony blinked and shook his head as he pulled out his credentials and the warrant. Reeves snorted as she looked at them. She then looked from Tony to McGee with hard eyes. McGee knew from Gibbs that this woman messed with his memories. Finding out he was (probably) drugged and then had a hypnosis session that scrambled what he remembered from the Tiger Cruise was disturbing. He still did not know why it happened to him—he suspected only Carter knew for certain. That disturbed him as well. Carter had been a good friend for a long time, most of his lifetime, the secret or secrets he kept made McGee begin to doubt their friendship.

He had started to wonder if Carter was a friend after all.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Autopsy_**

Ducky sat at his desk following his return from lunch. He looked at the slim file that was placed in front of him just as he got his coat off. He peered at it through his glasses then looked at his visitor.

"Jethro, there isn't much here," Ducky said. "I can't be expected to give you a profile of any use with so little information. I understand Timothy knows this man. Perhaps if I can speak to him."

"McGee thinks this guy is his friend," Gibbs said. "I need to know if he's dangerous."

"Well, he's a Navy SEAL," Ducky chuckled. "He's multifaceted weapon in some respects. He is skilled at reconnaissance, infiltration, marksmanship, and evasion. Those with such skills can be a tremendous threat or coveted heroes. I do not have enough information here to see which is a closer match. What is it you are looking for?"

Gibbs sighed and shook his head. He wasn't sure what he was looking for other than answers. They had a pile of questions, one that kept growing. What Scott involved in the drug ring? Did he know if McGee's shooting was related to his discovery on the computer, or was the attack done in retaliation for something Scott said to the as-yet-unconfirmed admiral? Were the events of that tiger cruise decades earlier still relevant and, if the BOLO report was accurate, why was Pamela Reeves suddenly back in the DC area?

"I want to know if Lt. Commander Carter Scott is a threat to McGee," Gibbs said.

"Jethro?" Ducky questioned. "What aren't you telling me?"

"I don't know what I don't know," Gibbs said with frustration as he looked at his phone.

His gut told him, just after he sent his agents to Virginia, that doing so was a bad idea. Something was gnawing at his gut. If Reeves was back, she did not appear to be hiding. She disappeared suddenly the previous year for no apparent reason other than NCIS wanted to speak to her. Now, she re-emerged just as abruptly? It seemed convenient. Too convenient.

"You've been on edge all day," Ducky noted as he eyed his friend with compassion. "How did you take it when Timothy arrived in Afghanistan unexpectedly?"

"Me?" Gibbs scoffed. "Surprised. He wasn't who I was expecting. He hadn't been reinstated when I left."

The medical examiner and psychological profiler nodded. He suspected there was more than surprise in the old gunnery sergeants heart and mind when his junior agent appeared in the foreign nation unexpectedly. There was likely fear and worry, two things the team leader did not like admitting and liked even less processing.

"No, but you knew it was just a matter of time before that happened," Ducky noted in a clinical voice. "Jethro, you have lost team members and colleagues in the past. Fortunately, Timothy, like Anthony, has proven amazingly resilient despite the peril he has faced. I wonder sometimes if you are simply waiting for the other shoe to drop, as it were, with the two of them. The agents on your team are always close to you—but these two agents in particular, and Ziva as well, have been with you a remarkably long time and they are your family. To lose any of them would be devastating; to be reminded of how close you have come in the past to just that scenario is not easy. Your desire to watch over them is commendable, but as Timothy unfortunately demonstrated just last spring, you cannot always be there to protect them."

Gibbs huffed and did not bother to stating that there was no reason he could not try.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 **Century Arms Apartments**

"You're arresting me?" Reeves barked as she finished reading Tony's warrant. "Why?"

"It's not a criminal arrest," Tony explained. "You're a material witness to something that happened in Alameda like 30 years ago. Don't waste your time or your breath telling me you don't remember that far back. I believe you, but my boss has a way of finding details that might still be stashed in your pickled gourd. So grab a coat and let's go."

McGee shook his head at Tony's idea of a casual and coaxing approach. Reeves eyed them sourly for a moment then, miraculously, complied.

"If I tell you everything I know, you gotta set me up better than this," she huffed as she started down the hallway. "I am not protecting that bastard anymore. I don't give a damn if he's an admiral or if he's the Secretary General of the U.N. He forced me to do all of it. You know the best thing that ever happened to me? I screwed up with that one kid. Nosy-assed grandmother wouldn't leave well-enough alone. The kid was fine—I did my job, did what Paul told me to do—and the little bastard was fine afterward, but that bitchy old bat wouldn't let it go. Got her husband to call in some favors. You'd think someone named Nelson wouldn't be anyone to worry about."

As she rambled her way down the stairs, McGee looked fiercely at Tony, who shrugged but motioned with his hand for his partner to keep his cool. The name Nelson meant nothing to Tony initially but between the mention of a brat with a busybody grandmother and McGee's reaction, the answer popped up in Tony's mind. The late Nelson McGee, retired two-star admiral and Navy Intel guru in his day, married to wingnut mathematician Dr. Penelope Langston.

Five hundred yards away, the crosshairs of a scope center on the entrance to the Century Arms Apartment. The gunman sat atop the derelict office building slated for demolition in a month's time. The convenient perch he set up for himself a week earlier after bugging the old junkie's apartment had an ideal view of the building and several easy egress points. Not that he was worried. He did this for a living. He was paid well by men he never met and who never met him. This job would be the easiest ever, he thought to himself. One bullet was all that was needed; however, with two feds accompanying her, he considered sweetening the deal without additional charge. Fewer US feds was always a good thing in his book.

As the trio stepped into the bright afternoon light, Tony coaxed few more details from their captive.

"So Nelson did what to you exactly?" Tony asked.

Reeves smiled sourly as she put a cigarette into her mouth and lit it. She stood between the two agents, glaring at them as though they were beneath her.

"Tried to get my ass busted," she said. "Instead of bringing charges, someone arranged to have me shipped across the country. I lost out on my little side money making business with the move, but I didn't see what a gift that was. I should have broken free then and just left the Navy. But I stayed and… well, it was all downhill from there. I couldn't live with what I'd done to those kids. It's funny, the one I got screwed over for is the only who I actually helped. Of course, if you want to know more—the good stuff—you're going to have to get me a deal that includes protection. There's no way I'm flipping on Paul Porter without that kind of guarantee. He may just be a scumbag, but his friends are dangerous."

The trio started toward the parking lot with the broken and heave concrete where Tony parked the car upon their arrival. Reeves marched between the two agents, dwarfed with their height. She squinted and held up her hand to shade her withered and yellowed eyes. The sky was clear and without a cloud. The air was still without the hint of a breeze. Tony adjusted his sunglasses as McGee gestured toward their government sedan as a gunshot split the air.

The actual sound of the gunshot itself was suppressed mechanically and by the distance the bullet traveled. It was the sound of the bullet breaking the sound barrier, like a bullwhip cracking, that the agents heard. When Reaves' head snapped back and she fell instantly in a heap at their feet, both dived for cover.

"McGee?" Tony yelled.

"I've got nothing," his voice responded sounding agitated but strong. "You?"

Tony looked across at his partner, scanning the horizon for anything suspicious. Tony conducted a cursory glance s well then scrambled toward the unmoving pile of arms and legs oozing life onto the sidewalk. There was no point in checking for a pulse he realized as the back of her head was missing, splattered across the concrete walkway and the front of the building behind them.

"Nothing," Tony replied then added. "She's gone."

The sight of blood never particularly bothered him, but his heart was jumping more than normal for having been shot at and he blamed McGee or that. His initial call to his partner was actually to see if he was hit. That he got a situational report instead of a wellness one was good. If McGee was alert enough to have looked for anything resembling a shooter, he was obviously okay in all other areas. Whether there would be more casualties was a question answered as people began streaming out of the apartment complex and pointing at the woman seeping red onto the sidewalk. Tony scrambled to hold the onlookers back while McGee called the local LEO's per protocol to report the shooting. They locked eyes as Tony shook his head at the many possible locations for a sniper's nest.

"Hell of a coincidence," he muttered.

"What was?" McGee asked. "Her getting shot just as she was going to tell us everything she remembered?"

"That, too," Tony replied, holding the rest of his theory from his partner.

McGee's eyes were wide with the adrenaline rush and his face was pale from the shock. Both were standard and expected reactions—one's Tony was certain he was demonstrating as well—but Tony's gut told him there was more to this than coincidence. He knew McGee suspected as much, but this was not the time to dig into theories. They had evidence and statements to collect and a scene to secure.

Several blocks away, a man carrying a guitar case slipped unlocked his car by the curb and slowly pulled into the street and headed for the interstate. It was a last minute decision to leave the Fed's standing. One looked entirely too pale to ever enjoy life; killing him would be like killing a kitten. There would be no joy or purpose in it. The other, frankly, had a nice pair of sunglasses. Any man with a government job who understood the finer things was also worth keeping. Without another thought, the hitman disappeared into traffic; his payment was already in his account and he would soon return to Colombia never to be seen or heard from again.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come.


	42. Chapter 42

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Autopsy_**

Tony and McGee followed the body bag on the gurney into the brightly lit white room with the stainless steel tables. Palmer nodded to them as he finished filling out the paperwork to have the body released into NCIS's custody. Without much mystery involved in how and when Reeves died, it was the Woodbridge ME who did the official pronouncement of death and transporting of the corps rather than calling out the NCIS bus. Tony and McGee finished processing the scene while the Woodbridge PD went scouting for the sniper's nest. Tony doubted they would find it before the NCIS crime reconstruction crew created their computer model and pointed them in the likely direction.

"Got a fresh one for you, Ducky," Tony said. "I don't think this one will take a long time to determine the COD on this one. I'm going out on a limb and say it was when she got hit in the head with a bullet. The who did it and the why are bigger questions right now."

"No doubt," the medical examiner said. "I will endeavor to find out whatever she has to say that may assist you with those; however, she will need to wait her turn. I have two guests in front of her."

Tony nodded as the body was wheeled toward the freezers. McGee followed it with his eyes; his ears were still ringing from the gunshot that felled her—or so he hoped.

"Well, as soon as you have a trajectory angle, get it up to Abby," Tony remarked then backhanded McGee on the arm to get his attention for the other agent to follow.

"To Larry," McGee corrected him as he shook his concentration free from the body bag.

It was strange for him, watching the leak-proof pouch first be loaded onto a gurney at the scene then to watch it take its place in Ducky's refrigerated vault. He did not dwell on his own mortality much—at least normally—but being in such close proximity to Reeves when she was killed shook him. She was not the first person to die in front of him, but her murder (being sniped, there was no other reasonable conclusion) made his blood run cold. While most might suspect that his thoughts on dying that afternoon had a lot to do with his own gunshot wound nearly a year earlier, they would be wrong. His thoughts were on something closer than Afghanistan and only slightly larger than a bullet (the size of a large blueberry to be precise, according to Abby's latest analogy). Ducky regarded McGee thoughtfully as he watched the newly arrive agents with a keen eye.

"What about Larry?" Tony asked.

"Larry's on ballistics now," McGee said making a choice to keep his wife as far from the day's events as possible. "Abby just reviews the findings and only jumps in when they get stuck. Larry will do the ballistics and trajectory. Abby doesn't need to be involved so there's no need to bother her with this. Like you said, not much mystery here."

Tony rolled his eyes shook his head.

"Fine, Larry, whatever," he shrugged. "As long as the angles get to the lab. Let us know if you find anything fascinating, Ducky. McGee, let's go."

"Not quite," Ducky said. "Anthony, you may go. Timothy, take a seat at my desk please."

The agents exchanged a look and shrugged at each other. Tony then half nodded and jerked his chin in a silent order for McGee to comply. He did so with a questioning expression.

"Do I need to sign something?" McGee asked as he watched Ducky open one of the cabinets and removed his black physician's bag. "What is that for?"

"You have blood in the corner of your mouth, and you are favoring your left side," the medical examiner noted. "I saw it as you came in. Take off your jacket."

McGee sighed and prepared to leave only to have the diminutive but determined Scotsman glower at him powerfully. Behind the doctor, Tony held up his hands in surrender.

"Ducky, I feel fine, and I'm not hurt," McGee said. "We've actually got reports to file and…"

"And you can file them when you are cleared to leave this room," Ducky said commandingly. "Right now, you are being asked to remove your jacket while I conduct my examination. I would rather not make it an order that I need to report through our chain of command later; however, I am not averse to doing so."

McGee scowled and sighed dejectedly as he stripped off his coat while wearing a protest scowl. Tony smirked over Ducky's shoulder as the doctor removed his stethoscope from his bag. He began the typical routine of listening to his patient's heart and making him take deep breaths, when McGee hitched on that command Ducky merely nodded.

"What's with the blood?" Tony wondered, surprised he had not noticed it.

Actually, he had noticed it. He just thought it was part of Reeves's gushing mist that exploded when her head did. Now, he could see the red ooze was still fresh and therefore new.

"I bit my lip, that's all," McGee through clenched teeth. "Ducky, honestly, it's nothing."

The doctor proceeded to check McGee's pupils and then ran his hands over the back and sides of his head.

"Most likely," he replied in a way that let McGee know he was not yet finished with his exam. "Did you strike your head? You have a bump forming here on the left parietal about 3 centimeters above your ear. Do you hear any ringing in your ears?"

McGee shook his head as Ducky continued to probe the area. He winced slightly as he felt the bump.

"No loss of consciousness?" he asked, but directed the question to Tony who shook his head. "Does it hurt?"

"No," McGee scowled.

"You feel nothing at all?" he questioned. "That's quite remarkable."

"Okay," McGee relented. "I can feel where I bumped my head. I was taking cover behind a concrete planter. I didn't hit it hard, just hard enough to get a small bump and bit my lip. Believe me, I've hurt worse."

Ducky snorted but did not bother to state he did not doubt that. It was, however, not a question of comparing pain levels but of assessing whether there was any pain at all.

"And your side?" he asked. "Where does it hurt right now?

"It's only a small sore spot, Ducky," McGee replied. "It's nothing."

"I think the doctor is the best judge of that," Tony said.

He wasn't taunting. He wasn't teasing. He was waiting, patiently, for an expert to give his partner a quick once over. It wasn't that Tony thought McGee was ailing, but if Ducky was concerned enough to feel compelled to check, who was he to disagree. He'd lost his partner for the better part of a year not so long ago. Validating that wouldn't happen again was simply wise in his book.

"Thank you, Anthony," Ducky nodded. "Timothy, undo the buttons of your shirt please."

Not one to resist the opportunity, Tony whistled salaciously and was considering a catcall or two until Ducky turned to offer him an icy stare that subdued the teasing to a coughing fit from the senior agent.

"Come now," Ducky encouraged his patient. "No reason to be modest. Most who come for my exams are wearing far less than you."

It was not modesty that reddened McGee's face but embarrassment at being treated like a child. He did not feel this exam was necessary, but he did not feel he could just walk away. With gritted teeth, he unfastened his buttons and raised his arm as Ducky requested, wincing slightly as he did so. The man peered at his scars with a clinical eye as he probed the growing welt on McGee's side just below the starburst shaped entry would he received the previous year.

Tony looked at him with his jaw going slightly slack. The massive scar down McGee's chest, like the spine of a book, was pink and sickening despite its neatness. It shown brightly on his pale skin. The round, reddish puncture mark where the nearly-deadly bullet entered turned Tony's stomach and raised sour tastes in his throat. In all his years as a cop, he had seen plenty of carnage, but it was always the marks on the innocent (and those he cared about) that hit him hardest. He swallowed with difficulty.

"When you were shot," Ducky reported, "one of the bullets broke your fourth rib as it pierced the third intercostal space. I do not think you cracked a rib today; however, you may have bruised it when you sought cover. At the very least, you have aggravated the soft tissues again around then entry wound scar. I'm certain your physician has told you that for up to a year after that sort of catastrophic injury, the bones and muscle tissues surrounding the area will remain sensitive. You're developing a bruise here. It will likely aggravate you for a few days; however, if you feel a shortness of breath or any sharp pain you should see a doctor forthwith."

McGee nodded as Ducky placed a blood pressure cuff on his arm and commenced that part of his exam. He looked oddly at Tony, who offered him in an oddly thoughtful expression that McGee did not understand. He was expecting comments about the blinding whiteness of his skin or a striptease joke but received none.

"Well, your pressure is within acceptable ranges, particularly considering the events of this afternoon," Ducky reported. "Still, should you feel lightheaded, call your doctor immediately."

"I'll be fine," McGee shook his head as he gratefully slipped his shirt on again and prepared to leave.

"Fine you may well be, but I don't need to tell you, Timothy, that cardiovascular surgery is delicate work," Ducky responded as he began to pack his bag again. "You know, this reminds me of something that happened once while I attended a cricket match in Barbados. Yes, the home team's star bowler was hit directly over the heart by the opposing team's least powerful batsman. The bowler, a strapping young lad of no more than 20, took the hit well and hardly seemed phased by it. However, as a matter of course, he was called by his team doctor to the sidelines for a perfunctory check. He shrugged to his teammates before following the command. He then took five steps and fell dead on the pitch."

McGee stopped fastening his buttons and gaped at Ducky. Tony blinked then scoffed.

"He just died right there?" Tony asked.

"Yes," Ducky nodded. "Quite suddenly and unexpectedly. I was called in to assist a friend of mine who was the medical examiner for the region. It seems the young man had been a victim of a rare convergence of events. At autopsy, we discovered he had an undiagnosed ailment of an enlarged heart. Add to that the ball hitting him in just the right spot in the very instant that his left ventricle was contracting. It was a bit like getting the wind knocked out of you. The heart simply seized and could not release itself from its contracted aspect. As a result, the poor fellow died right there on the pitch much to the dismay of his teammates and the shock of the normally ineffectual batsman."

McGee, wide-eyed and still gaping, looked at Ducky and felt his face grow a shade paler.

"What are you saying?" he asked.

"Well, cricket can be a dangerous sport for one thing," the medical examiner said the grinned. "You can set your fears to rest, Timothy. You do not suffer from an enlarged heart. In fact, having seen your records I can confidently state that all medical documentation demonstrates your myocardial health is impeccable. Still, it is better to be safe than sorry. I proscribe sitting at your desk for the rest of the day. I would also suggest getting some ice for your lip and that contusion on your side. The bruise you are developing will merely cause a few mild aches, but as you know, they will heal."

He pat McGee on the arm as he crossed the room to store his medical bag. With a confused nod, McGee grabbed his coat and walked toward the door with Tony in tow. They reached the elevator when McGee discerned Tony quietly counting on his fingers.

"Seven, eight, nine…," he said while his eyes flitted toward his partner.

"What are you doing?" McGee asked as the elevator door slid open. He then scowled. "You're counting steps to see if I drop dead, aren't you?"

Tony chuckled guiltily as he grinned in a similar fashion. Part of him didn't want to do that, but the part that was feeling giddy after their near miss that afternoon and from seeing the ravages on his partners physique, needed to rebel and do something inappropriate and childish to banish he chill he felt in his bones and the knot that formed in his stomach.

"No," Tony said unconvincingly. "I'm just… counting… You don't feel faint or anything, do you?"

McGee scowled then stiff armed his partner out of the elevator.

"Take the next one," McGee said as he glared while Tony continued to grin.

His partner's face disappeared looking hurt yet victorious as the doors closed firmly leaving him behind. McGee gnashed his teeth briefly before he buried his face in his hands briefly and growled. It was part anger and part insane chuckle—not that he would let Tony know there was anything funny about what just occurred. While it was slightly offensive (as much of Tony's humor could be), there was something so egregiously normal about Tony making light of what many would consider an alarming event.

If he had wondered at all before whether Tony thought him up to the job once again, McGee now had his answer. Joking and teasing about his possible demise while on the threshold of the autopsy suite was, oddly, a supreme vote of confidence.

With that in mind, McGee made his way to his desk sporting an oddly content smirk. Gibbs spied him as he put down the phone having just received a report from Ducky on his agent's welfare.

"Something funny, McGee?" he asked.

"Just realizing that there are days when I live in a Monty Python skit, Boss," McGee said. "That's a British TV show that exemplified dry and ironic humor."

"Моё судно на воздушной подушке полно угрей," Gibbs said plainly in Russian, drawing McGee's questioning stare.

"What does that mean?" he asked with a bewildered expression.

"My hovercraft is full of eels," Gibbs replied as he dropped his empty coffee cup on the trash. "Get working on that report."

"On it, Boss," he nodded.

The rest of the afternoon was spent writing up his report for the incident and receiving various calls from the Woodbridge PD. Tony was the lead agent on the shooting; however, in typical Tony fashion, he abdicated much of the paperwork to McGee—claiming it was a senior field agent's privilege when working with a probie. McGee did not bother to fight this, particularly as Bishop was not around for him to pawn off any work. She was, apparently, still in MTAC talking with NSA contacts on a case out of the Naples office that needed her expertise.

It was odd, working on the Navy drug ring case while still doing normal business for the major case response team. One day they would be at the scene of a high tech burglary of a Navy intel facility; the next busting a high end chop shop run by off-duty Marines; when those were done, it was back to the Navy drug ring. In some ways, it reminded McGee of the first long-term case he worked with Gibbs: the hunt for Ari Haswari.

Unlike that case, the search at hand currently was not being conducted in the open but the veil of secrecy on the case was growing thinner all the time. It was odd keeping open secrets in the squad room. The team knew about McGee's secret assignment to find Carter Scott. He knew about their ongoing, if stalled, inquiry into the 30-year-old San Francisco cold case. They all knew they were working for Parsons as he dug around for evidence on the drug ring. McGee knew it should feel wrong with so much apparent subterfuge going on, but as all those on his team were actually fully apprised, it just seemed laughable.

What wasn't laughable was the growing knot in his side. The pain was no worse than before but what bothered him was what he would tell Abby. As she did not call or come racing up from the lab, it appeared word did not filter through the agency about the day's shooting, which was not surprising. There was no news coverage at the scene—McGee suspected that was Parsons' doing. Those who lived in Reeves' neighborhoods were happy to gawk but few were likely to talk—it was that kind of area. Abby would learn of McGee's involvement and proximity eventually; he just wanted to delay that until they were home for the evening.

His reason was the one covert aspect of his life that his team did not know about yet. Keeping Abby's pregnancy a secret was not precisely difficult. There was nothing for anyone to observe yet, although she worried that would change soon. The hard part was keeping his mouth shut. It was good news, great news. They didn't get to share that kind of thing often in the squad room, and it was weighing on him keeping the secret from his closest friends. There was, however, a date marked on the calendar several weeks in the future. If Abby's appointment on that day was as glowing as her previous ones, the gag order would be lifted. Until then, McGee did what he could to keep a low profile and not raise suspicions. He also did what he could to make things easy on Abby. Keeping his proximity to that day's shooting a secret fell into that category.

So it was with extreme control and strategy that he greeted her when she arrived just after 5 p.m. at the end of her day.

McGee took one look at her and felt his instincts to protect her kick in. She was whipped. It was obvious from her heavy eyes and drooping shoulders. In the last two weeks, fatigue (the kind she reported was natural and expected) had set in and seemed to sap every ounce of exuberance out of her by the day's end.

"You ready?" she asked fighting off a yawn as she stood wearily beside his desk.

"Yeah," McGee replied quickly as he shut down his computer then looked to Gibbs. "Boss, my report and Tony's is in your inbox. Woodbridge PD is still trying to nail down a location for the… perpetrator."

He spoke the last part cautiously, avoiding the word sniper, and was pleased when he thought Abby was not fully listening.

"Fine," Gibbs said. "I talked to Ducky. You follow up medically if you need to."

McGee nodded and broke eye contact as he grabbed his jacket and prepared to hightail it out of the room when Abby cocked her head to the side.

"What are you following up medically for Ducky?" she wondered. "Since when does he need an agent to do his research?"

"It's nothing," McGee said quickly. "He just looked at something that's not really important to a case we caught, and I said I would follow up."

Abby nodded, not fully comprehending but lacking the will and energy to question it further. Gibbs, however, heard the evasion and several red flags were raised immediately. McGee downplaying, and even flat out being deceptive, about what Ducky meant was the first one. The next was who he tried to skate the half-truth by: Abby. While Ducky did officially do a physical exam, he had also done a sly psychological eval and reported to Gibbs he did not see any immediate signs McGee was suffering more than would be expected after the day's events. Still, considering his past record with hiding such things, Gibbs was not going to let it go for as long this time as he had previously before he stepped in to do his own assessment. He looked at his agent with a worried and perturbed expression.

Gibbs stood up from his desk and sighed. He jerked his head toward the elevator as he spoke sternly to his agent.

"McGee," he said firmly. "With me."

McGee looked quickly at Abby as he paused. Gibbs looked over his shoulder and growled.

"Now," he said.

Abby blinked but stepped aside dutifully as McGee trailed after Gibbs. When they headed to the elevator, she simply sighed and dropped into his chair and did her best to keep her eyes from fluttering shut. Fatigue was nipping at her heels more and more each afternoon. Her evenings were disappearing in a few blinks. It seemed like, more often than not recently, she would go home and sit on the couch for just a moment only to be nudged awake and hour later when McGee would tell her dinner was ready. After eating, she would feel momentarily energized but no sooner would she get comfortable on the couch to read or watch a movie and she would again awakened by McGee telling her she should go lie down in bed. She yawned while in his chair, vowing not to fall asleep at the office.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _ELEVATOR_**

McGee waited the expected three seconds and, on cue, Gibbs shut down the car freezing it in place as a hard-bitten glare filled his face.

"I'm not a marriage counselor," Gibbs said.

"Divorced three times, that makes sense," McGee remarked then blanched in horror as he realized what he said. His face grew pale as he swallowed dryly. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"I'm also not a shrink, but I know a lie when I hear one," Gibbs said hotly. "We went through this last summer. So help me if you think you are going to put on an act and get away with it, you are sorely mistaken. Tell me: Why did you just lie to Abby? Cranston is a phone call away, McGee. You don't need to prove you're tough enough to shrug this off if you actually can't."

McGee shook his head and opened his mouth to explain but found he could not. He understood Gibbs' concern—in fact he was touched by it and the swiftness the man displayed when jumping on what he thought was a problem. It was a far cry from the cold lockout McGee felt he received the previous year when he was struggling. But the problem now was not that he didn't dare confess to Gibbs what was on his mind. It was that he was forbidden to do so.

"Boss, I can imagine how it might seem, but it's nothing like that, I swear," he insisted. "I just don't think it's a good idea to tell Abby what happened today. She'll get upset and… well… That's not a good idea."

It sounded like a lame excuse and, on some level, it was, but that did not make it any less true.

"She knows what the job is, McGee," Gibbs said. "From what you said in there, I didn't get the feeling that it's Abby you're protecting—at least not her alone."

McGee opened his mouth then shrugged. Gibbs was right in a technical sense, but again, explaining that was not possible. Not without breaking his word to his wife—something he tried never to do.

"I can understand completely why it appears that way," McGee said diplomatically. "But it's not what you think. I just I don't want her worrying about anything unnecessarily. She went through a lot last year, and she doesn't need any new stress or to worry about might happen in the future."

Gibbs eyed him warily. There was sincerity in his expression and a ring of genuine concern in his words. McGee was good at a lot of things but playing poker wasn't one of them. Sure, he could figure out the hands of everyone at the table, but bluffing was not his forte. Gibbs knew he was not getting a lie, but he also knew he was not getting the whole truth.

"Why?" he asked plainly.

McGee shrugged, but there was a guilty look on his face that sparked worry in his boss.

"You're hiding something which is as good as lying," Gibbs stared hard at him, backing him into the corner of the elevator, but his agent's lips remained sealed. "What aren't you telling me?

McGee shook his head emphatically.

"Boss, I can't," he insisted. "Look, there's nothing wrong with me, and I'm not secretly flipping out about what happened. I already called Dr. Cranston anyway, just to follow up in case. I have an appointment to see her next week as a simple precaution—it's on my calendar. I submitted the leave request to you already. Honest."

Gibbs heard the truth in his words and saw it in the sincerity in his eyes. That cinched a knot of worry in Gibbs's gut. If it wasn't McGee who was ailing, that left another candidate.

"Is something wrong with Abby?" he asked.

She had looked pale and weary lately. Her hours at work were more normal now that she had reliable assistants so it was odd that despite working less she appeared more haggard.

"There's nothing wrong with her," McGee said truthfully as he shook his head. "I just know she'll go off the deep end when she finds out what happened today, and it's better if that doesn't happen. She'll… react in her typical worrying way, and that's not a good thing."

"She'll react?" Gibbs repeated skeptically. "Your little deception was because you're worried your wife will yell and start scurrying around repeating _oh my god_ a few dozen times because something scared her? No. I'm not buying it."

McGee sighed exasperatedly. Lying to Gibbs, or not telling him the truth, felt wrong and vile (especially when he wanted to tell the man—tell everyone), but he gave Abby his word. He knew why she wanted, and in some ways needed, to keep their secret for now, but that did not make this any easier.

"I'm just concerned for her," he replied quickly then hung his head as he realized he said the wrong thing. "I mean… Not that there's a reason for concern; there's nothing wrong with Abby. I just meant…"

Gibbs scoffed loudly as he scowled and pinned McGee in place with an icy stare, one born of worry rather than anger.

"Tim, spit it out," he ordered. "What aren't you telling me? So help me, if you say nothing, I will send you back to Cyberia for the rest of your career."

The threat scared him (as did the man's knowledge of the name McGee secretly gave to the cybercrimes unit) and it pushed the words out of his mouth before he had the good sense to stop them.

"Abby's pregnant," McGee said then swallowed his disappointment at breaking when he promised to keep the secret.

Gibbs blinked and stepped back. His face lost all its menacing creases and his eyes softened along with his voice.

"She's pregnant?" Gibbs repeated to be certain he heard properly.

McGee nodded and relaxed as the man's tension evaporated and the elevator became less of a penalty box and more of a confessional.

"That's why I don't want to give her a reason to get upset or worked up for no reason," he explained. "Obviously, I'll tell her what happened, but she's always so tired at the end of the day that she gets easily over wrought about even little things. I mean, if you thought she could be emotional before, it's nothing compared to how she gets lately. She killed a spider three days ago and cried for 10 minutes about it. I swear to you, I'll tell her when we're home after she's had a chance to take her first nap of the evening."

Gibbs sighed and shook his head.

"Is she doing alright?" he asked. "Is the baby healthy?"

"Yeah, as far as we know," McGee nodded. "Everything is still pretty new and unknown. Her doctor is preaching caution right now for a lot of reasons, but so far everything seems okay. She had an appointment today, and the tests all came back good. There's still more to go, but… so far…"

Gibbs sighed. He understood now the renewed jitters in McGee. For the last month, Gibbs had worried it was the result of the trip to Afghanistan, revising the region where McGee was nearly fatally wounded the previous year. Now, in context, the agitation made more sense. His agent was anxious and worried about his family.

"That's why she kicked the caffeine habit again and stuck to it so far?" Gibbs remarked and receive an agreeable nod in return.

It was not a fun stretch when she was first giving up one of her food groups. What made it worse was that she made McGee give up caffeine too. Learning to function in the morning without coffee was hard—starting to do it following a week-long, anxiety-filled trip to a place 10 time zones different than normal had not helped, but he had managed.

"Uh, Boss?" McGee said hesitantly. "About what I just told you… um, we're not telling anyone yet in case there are complications. Abby insists on waiting a few more weeks."

Gibbs nodded easily. He remembered the drill himself. The memory of his own worry and anxiety when Shannon was carrying Kelly was still a memory he clearly recalled. A knot caught briefly in his throat.

"Please don't say anything to anyone," McGee requested. "Abby would kill me if she knew I said anything to you. Not telling anyone is really her rule and… I… uh…"

"Just broke it?" Gibbs offered. McGee smiled as he nodded. "Oh yeah, you seem pretty broken up about that, Tim. You can have my silence on one condition: You take care of them and keep them safe, you got that?"

McGee locked eyes with him and nodded firmly and sincerely, seeing the pain in the man's eyes as the regret he felt for not being able to do what he commanded McGee to accomplish stabbed at him.

"Of course," McGee vowed. "I will—with my life if I have to, Boss—I swear."

The adamancy, sincerity, and earnestness Gibbs first saw in the agent 13 years earlier that seemed to emphasize how young and green he was were still in his voice and expression, yet there was a determination now that was both mature and determined. Gibbs nodded appreciatively. He briefly patted the back of McGee's head then offered his hand.

"Good answer," he said tightly as he started the elevator moving again. "Congratulations."

They exited the elevator to find Abby struggling to keep her eyes open at McGee's desk. He grabbed his coat, backpack, and gun to leave. He took Abby's hand, leading her out of the room, while receiving a knowing nod from Gibbs that Abby did not seem to notice.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Abby and McGee's Home_**

The trip home was quiet. Abby yawned and fought to stay away for the short drive. It was just over 8 miles from the office to their driveway, but it took nearly 30 minutes with the evening traffic. Prior to living with Abby, McGee would take the Metro to work from his apartment in Silver Spring as often as possible to avoid traffic and recapture the commute time so that he could read. Despite a Metro stop being just a couple miles from their house, McGee felt better driving Abby to work lately. Certainly the Metro was safe, but he felt better seeing her door-to-door himself each evening it was possible to do so. On nights when he had to stay late, he gave her his keys and he would take the Metro home on his own.

While she demanded that McGee did not need to treat her like she was the protectee on a detail, he respectfully disagreed. He meant what he said to Gibbs in the elevator. Taking care of her and protecting her and their child was his top priority. Many things in his life were important, but nothing was more important than them.

His worry about her was stronger and deeper than he let her know. Keeping his thoughts and words positive around her was not always easy; certainly he did not always feel so sure in his gut. He heard the doctor's cautions. He read the same articles Abby did. There were a few odds stacked against them, and there were a lot of unknown things only time would reveal, but packing away those doubts and tucking them out of sight with his fears was just what he had to do for now. If Nature, science, Fate, Providence, Chance, God, or whatever controlled the universe wanted to be kind or fair, everything would be okay. And until he had cause to do otherwise, it was his job to pretend everything was going to be fine.

But it was hard.

Normally, when he felt uncertain about some aspect of his life, Abby was his confidante. She knew all his fears. For more than a decade, he brought his uncertainty and insecurities to her doorstep for encouragement. This was, he knew, his chance to payback her countless pep talks and encouraging smiles, her consoling sighs and exuberant cheering section. His sister used to joke that he would be the cliché geek who married a cheerleader one day. As he parked in the driveway of their home, he glanced across the car at the dark beauty whose fashion and tattoos startled his mother, and realized his sister could not have been more right.

"Abby," he said gently waking her. "We're home."

The normal drill recently upon turning home included Abby making a bee line toward the couch and power napping for 30 minutes before dinner while he worked on his computer in the other room. That evening, however, she barely had her jacket off before she called McGee back to the living room.

"Tim, come here for a minute," she said.

It was the tone of her voice as much as the request that prompted him to stop the boot up sequence on his computer. While she slept, he usually went through his email and Facebook messages (most from his mother or Sarah checking in with him and the occasionally request from Holly for a virtual world tip for cyber domination). He put those thoughts aside as he responded to the insistence in her voice.

"Do you need something?" he asked and received simply an open armed gestured.

Abby was a physically friendly individual normally. She was not one to hide her affections and hugged and asked to be hugged back often. Pregnancy did not change that much except that now there were occasionally tears with the hugs, although she insisted they were not from sadness. Fatigue seemed to be their leading cause.

Seeing a slight glistening sheen to her eyes that evening, he dutifully embraced her and was prepared to coax her to take her normal nap when she shocked him with her next words and the calmness she showed in uttering them.

"When were you going to tell me someone shot at you today?" she asked plainly.

"What?" McGee blinked. "You know about that? How?"

Abby scoffed as she stifled a yawn then reminded him that she worked in an office that investigated crime. Her delivery and grumble spoke volumes about how deluded he was to think what happened to their witness that day was a secret. Despite her displeased words, she remained standing and embracing him.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I was going to tell you after dinner. I didn't want you to get upset. Your appointment went well with Dr. Shinseki today, and I didn't want to bring you down or give you a reason to worry with what happened."

"McGee," she groaned. "You can't honestly think you can hide that kind of thing from me. I know you're okay physically, but are you okay over all?"

He looked down to see tears squeeze out of her closed lids. He sighed guiltily.

"I was scared for a few seconds," he said. "I never like it when someone shoots at us. We lost a witness. I can't really talk more about it, but it was… surreal. It was a professional hit. We're sure of it."

Abby hugged him tighter as she did so, pressing her ear tightly to his chest to listen to the calming beats of his heart. She then mumbled something about punishing him for trying to deceive her and grounding him to stay with her on the couch to think about what he had done. McGee relented, taking his sentence with good graces, yanking a blanket from the back of the sofa to drape over her shoulders as she huddled close to him on the edge of sleep.

"I knew you were okay and were back in the building by the time I heard what happened," Abby said meekly as she yawned. "You should have told me what happened anyway. Just because I knew you were okay doesn't mean I wasn't worried about you."

McGee held her as her breathing grew soft and regular. The tears no longer dribbled from her eyes soaking his shirt, but she still kept a tight hold on him. He kissed the top of her head, sighing regretfully at the stress she was under.

"You don't need to worry about me," he vowed quietly. "I promise you I'm not going to leave you—ever. Abby? Abby?"

He looked down to see she had fallen asleep, her hands fisting his shirt, with her head pressed to his heart.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad room_**

Bishop sat at her desk as the evening grew deep and dark outside the large bank of windows facing the orange room. The lights at most agents' desks were out as the room cleared more than an hour earlier. Gibbs disappeared to points unknown. McGee was long gone as well. Only Tony remained drumming on his desk as he waited for word from the Woodbridge PD on their search for any reports of a man walking in the vicinity of the shooting while carrying a long-barrel weapon.

He was not hopeful.

"Why don't you call it a night?" Bishop offered. "No one in Woodbridge is still working on this case. They'll pick it up in the morning, but you know as well as I do that if no one has called in a report after seeing the story about the shooting on the news, it's unlikely anyone will."

Tony scoffed and shook his head.

"That kind of thinking will keep you from attaining true spiritual enlightenment as an investigator," Tony lectured. "You have to believe in the twist of fate as much as the effectiveness of good old fashioned legwork."

"You've been at your desk for hours," she remarked. "What legwork have you been doing?"

"Metaphorical legwork," he replied. "McGee ran one those search thingies he does to find all the security cameras in a five block radius of the shooting. I am simply waiting on legal to walk up here with the warrant so I can then send him out tomorrow to get the footage that he can't hack into from his desk."

Bishop shook her head and felt badly for McGee. Tony was burdening him a lot of their less desirable tasks lately. Part of it was some form of hazing on his return to full duties. Part of it was Tony simply being Tony. What was odd was the lack of pushback McGee was offering. Certainly he grumbled once in a while, but there was a decided lack of outright resistance.

"What do you think is up with him lately?" she asked in a cautious tone. "He's got something on his mind. I can't tell if something's bothering him or if he's just getting used to being in the field again."

"Probie always has something on his mind," Tony said authoritatively. "It's like a Google in there. You say a word and his brain churns up pages and pages of stuff no one cares about or needs to know."

Bishop frowned and shook her head. Certainly McGee was introverted, she was herself, but there was something more to his quietness and aloof demeanor.

"I was wondering if it was because the anniversary of the attack is coming up in a few weeks," Bishop offered hesitantly. "That's got to be on his mind a little bit, right?"

It was something she wondered and worried about, particularly after their partner had been just inches away from a woman who was murdered while in their custody. McGee did not seem overly shaken when Bishop saw him that afternoon, but since returning from Afghanistan, his mind seemed to be focused elsewhere at times. Gibbs certainly had noticed and was showing signs of worry as well.

"Should we be looking for signs that he's…," she began then hesitated. "Did he come back too soon? He had a whole year he could take before applying to return."

"Stop worrying," Tony shook his head confidently. "McGee's fine. He's just getting his swing back. He was out of the game, benched, for a long time, and he's just relearning all of this stuff again. It's happened to him before—Vance pulled him out of the daylight and tossed him into the cyber basement for four months a few years ago for a special project. From what I understand, it took him a while to get used to the field again."

Bishop nodded. She heard about that. It was a mole hunt that sent Tony to an agent afloat position and returned their then-Mossad liaison officer to Israel, which was another issue that intrigued the agent. However, this was different. That was special assignment that pulled him out of the field. This was a near-death experience. She wondered if Tony's confidence was built on a refusal to believe his partner could actually be broken still.

"I know you're his friend," she said warily. "I know you want him to be okay, but are you telling me you don't have a single worry for him lately? He seems a little nervous and distracted once in a while. Like this morning before Abby came to take him to lunch, he was a kind of anxious."

Tony had noticed it, of course, he just chose not to see it as a bad thing. McGee was… jumpy. And why wouldn't he be, Tony thought. They were working on a huge case that they couldn't work on openly. His childhood friend was the source of his secret manhunt; the missing SEAL might be crazy and dangerous, if Ziva's and Gibbs' reports were accurate. Add to that their normal compliment of major cases and the guy was probably a little overwhelmed to hop back into the whirlwind that was their job.

"Trust me," Tony said. "I know McGee. Something's bothering him, but it's not the job."

"And you know this how?" Bishop persisted.

"'Cause I know him," Tony replied unhelpfully. "If he was worried about work, he'd be double and triple checking everything, averting his eyes when Gibbs enters a room, things like that. I was with him today, Ellie. Reeves drops in a heap at our feet and he had his gun out and was looking for the shooter without a second of hesitation. I think he was rattled by what happened, but so was I. No, whatever's bothering him its go nothing to do with work."

That, however, bothered Tony. If it wasn't the job gnawing on his partner, then it was his family. Tony wondered if Penny wasn't doing well—she was his leading candidate for worry as Abby and McGee seemed to be faring well in their relationship. They did the pathetically blissful hand holding thing and went to lunch often. Tony also saw evidence that things were not so innocent at home after hours, and that made him grin.

"Well, it's good that he's got friends around who understand him so well," Bishop said trying to sound casual. "Friends like you and… Ziva. She's quite different from Tim. I would never have pictured them as friends."

"Really?" Tony remarked. "She's always liked McGee. They have a strange relationship. He thinks she's a superhero and she thinks of him as one of her secret weapons, who also happens to have manners—like he's a gadget she was given to her by Q in her James Bond role."

Bishop smirked. All the proof she needed that Tony was not hiding a deep-seated fear for their partner was revealed on that statement. The senior field agent only referenced movies when he did not feel the need to be overly serious. However, that did open the door to other questions for her.

"Well, I haven't really had a chance to spend much time with her, but she seems interesting," Bishop began. "I knew I could never fill her shoes and now having met her, I know why. So, if McGee's her phone-a-friend, what does that make you?"

"Me?" Tony shrugged as a fake smile drew on his face.

"Yes," Bishop persisted. "Now that she's back stateside and living in the vicinity, what's the deal with the two of you?"

"Deal?" Tony scoffed and shook his head. "What deal? There's no deal."

"At one time, you two were very close," Bishop offered.

Tony continued to shake his head make twisted faces of confusion.

Close. Too close. Never close enough. It was hard to say with the Israeli ninja cast off.

"You're just a curious little kitty tonight, aren't you?" he deflected. "You want to delve into something worthy of speculation? Try this out: McGee's got a hicky. I saw it when Ducky was giving him the once over. It's not big, but it's there. I saw it, and I didn't say word one about it. There it was, as plain as day, a nice little lovebite not far from the collarbone, and I let the opportunity for inquiry slip by on purpose. What do you think is up with that?"

Bishop shook her head. She wasn't sure if he was asking her thoughts on how McGee got the mark or when Tony himself became miraculously mature enough to realize that was none of his business.

"I think you're just afraid of Abby," she said. "Speaking of Abby, did Gibbs mention anything to you about looking into the attack in Afghanistan again? One of the lab techs told me they were asked to go over the ballistics again. There's no chance she made a mistake last spring, is there?"

Tony shook his head and frowned. Being left out of the loop seemed to be the MO for this case. Whether it was strategic or simply an oversight was usually not clear until much later. This time, however, it seemed extremely odd. The attack itself had turned out to be the simple and easy part of the investigation.

"We accounted for every bullet and every gun," Tony said. "We identified every shooter and every victim. What questions could there be?"

"I don't know," Bishop shook her head as she bopped her rubber chicken the beak. "I thought that was strange, too. I also heard from Agent Balboa, when he called to congratulate me on my new desk décor, that there was some discussion in the armory today about a possible protection detail for an agent."

Tony shrugged.

"Agents go on protective details all the time," he said.

"No, I mean, the guys down there heard there might be discussion going on that an agent might need a protection detail," Bishop said quietly as she looked toward McGee's desk. "If they're looking at ballistics again all of a sudden and you and Tim were shot at today, are you sure Reeves was the target?"

Tony blinked. It was outlandish to suggest otherwise. They were out in the open Reeves was hit. Three clear targets, none overlapping. There was one shot… or at least, one shot they noted. As for Afghanistan, the two shooters who entered the room were dead. McGee got one. The Marines who stormed the room got the other. Case closed—at least that part of it.

"You're thinking there was a third shooter and he somehow was watching us today?" Tony suggested as he shook his head but a plethora of movie plot twists tangoed in his head. "Like who? Another Marine?"

Bishop shrugged. It seemed unlikely, but so did a 30-year conspiracy to use the Navy for drug smuggling. They knew there were upper level officers in the Navy involved in that; it was remotely possible that there was someone else on the ground that day with an interest who had not been shot and there for not identified.

"Careful," Tony warned. "You're spinning right now. Let me teach you a few lessons from my many years as a cop: One, usually the wife did it; two, very rarely does something big happen by accident; and three, the simplest answer is usually the right one. They are asking about ballistics. Ballistics and shooters are two different things. They want to know about the guns or the bullets or both. What inconsistencies did we have with either of those?"

Bishop sighed as she racked her brain to remember. They spent very little time on the question of ballistics once their pieced together the basic sequence of events in the Comm Center. Two shooters walked in and began to fire. One casualty fired back. Two more Marines then entered and ended the firefight. One 9 millimeter Sigsaur, NCIS issue. Two M16 rifles, standard Marine issue. One…

"The Glock," she said. "The Glock that was registered to the DC cop who died a few year ago. The gun was reported stolen and then shows up in Afghanistan."

Tony tipped his head back and chewed on that. He recalled the detail and something about the DEA. The agent from LA office in the 1980s, who seemed to be linked to drug cases that involved the Reynosa cartel—the case that ended up killing Gibbs' family, was the brother-in-law of the first owner of that gun.

"Lesson four: there are no outlandish coincidences," Tony said. "Pull up the records again. Find out if that gun in particular is the one that fired at McGee."

"Okay, but even if it is, what does it mean?" Bishop wondered as she began typing.

"I don't know," Tony shook his head. "But if the gun is connected to DC and there's talk about an agent in DC needing protection maybe there's something here still."

"After all this time?" Bishop shook her head. "Seems a little thin."

"Thin?" Tony chuckled mirthlessly. "It's anorexic, but it's a start. After all, Parsons was here today."

"So?" she asked as his last statement sort of appeared out of nowhere.

"Parsons was in with the director and Gibbs," he said. "Maybe our old buddy Dick found something."

Bishop wrinkled her nose as she waited for the report to load on her screen.

"If that was true and he thought McGee was in danger, then why did Gibbs send him out with you today?" she wondered.

Tony growled. She was right. That wasn't likely. Gibbs wouldn't recklessly put McGee in harms' way. Still, nothing in this case was what it seemed at first.

"Too many questions," he remarked as he looked at his partner's desk. "Not enough answers."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Gibbs Basement_**

Gibbs laid out the sturdy pieces of maple he purchased as the lumber yard after work. He needed to start work on something, to clear his head after the mistake he made.

Not that he could have foreseen what happened to Tony and McGee that day, but he hadn't taken Parsons' warning seriously enough. It wasn't that he believed McGee was the target of that day's shooting, but everything surrounding this case followed its own set of rules. For as much as he wanted McGee to get back to the job he was hired to do, it seemed now that he needed to be kept as far from this case as possible. Searching for Carter Scott through cyberspace was one thing. His days of running down leads in person were done.

Gibbs sighed, wondering if that was a rational decision or if he was the one reacting badly. McGee seemed to take Reeves murder in stride. He was bothered by it, rattled even by his own admission, but Gibbs began rethinking his decision to send him out on any more inquiries the second the call came into the squad room about the shooting.

Finding out Abby was pregnant was another jolt. While McGee didn't say much, his agitation lately and the vague statement about the doctor preaching caution said enough.

It was his news about Abby that prompted Gibbs to choose his new project. It was smaller than most he tackled, which was good because it would also be intricate and there was a deadline for it. He didn't know exactly when that would be, but he knew he had less than a year.

He was doing his first set of markings on the wood when a pair of heavy boots tromped down the stairs carrying Kort with them.

"If you ever want to do yourself in, you could just light a match down here," the ex-spy said. "There's enough sawdust in the air mixed with the Bourbon to send the house up like a Roman candle."

"If you haven't come for the ambience, why are you here?" Gibbs asked.

Kort tossed a file of photocopied pages into the table in front of him. Gibbs stared at it without moving toward it.

"Your little deep blue heroin enterprise started out as a cocaine route," Kort reported. "Pablo Escobar himself set it up after blackmailing a few Navy Lieutentents. After that, he expanded and went higher up the chain. The CIA found out about it and used it for intel, but then the boys at Langley leaked it to DEA in the mid '80s when it became a barren source of amusement for the company, I expect. Not really clear on why the CIA walked away. Might be because Escobar was dead so they though the ring was, too. Might be because we had Marines secretly knocking over drug labs in our unofficial interdiction policy and they brought back better information. Of course, you'd know all about that."

Gibbs said nothing. His time and mission in Colombia was still classified. He had no doubt Kort had read his full record, but that did not mean Gibbs needed to comment on it. Unlike Kort, his word meant something, and he wasn't a mercenary or traitor.

"DEA had a case agent who got in good with the contacts early on, a junior agent who made a name for himself," Kort continued. "Mark Johnson."

Gibbs heard the name and his eyes contracted slightly. He knew about Johnson's involvement in busting a lot of drug traffickers in the 1980s throughout California. One of his failed cases happened to involve Pedro Hernandez, the man who killed Gibbs' wife and daughter. Hearing confirmation he was linked to the Navy ring, and therefore some part of the ring out of Pendleton that resulted in his family's murder, was not surprising but it still angered and sickened him.

"I see you're familiar," Kort nodded. "What you may not know is how many of the seemingly low level cases he lost on purpose. A little deeper digging in a few unmentionable places by investigators back then would have revealed that those that slipped by were not as small as he made it seem. And even more spelunking in those craves would show how much money he made off those little miscarriages of justice. He had quite the enterprise. DEA, US Marshal Service…"

"Marshal Service?" Gibbs questioned then nodded. "WitSec?"

"You always were smarter than you look," Kort said. "They gave new identities to a few of Johnson's pets so they wouldn't rat out other parts of the network or because it turns out Mr. Johnson just had a heart—or so the unofficial report goes. Nothing documented mind you. Just rumors around the water cooler."

"So is Johnson the player not the pawn?" Gibbs asked as he picked up the file and began flipping through the reports.

Most were unredacted meaning they were unofficial. Unofficial meant unusuable. He would need to find some other way to build a case against the man, assuming he was still active. The statute of limitations on most of the charges they might raise would have run out 10 years earlier.

"Couldn't say—most of this intel is nearly 25 years old," Kort shook his head. "I wish I had known about this little endeavor when I was active. Arms dealing and drug dealing have a lot in common. A lot of money and a lot of secrets. I could have married the two nicely."

Gibbs scoff as he dropped the file back on the table.

"Yeah, and made yourself a nice retirement fund," he said.

"You wound me," Kort mocked.

"I wish," Gibbs replied. "Anything else?"

Kort shook his head and started for the stairs.

"Oh, except to mention something you already know but seem to have ignored," he offered. "Johnson has a nephew—son of his sister—kid was a real piece of work. His stepfather was a DC cop who tried his damnedest to keep the kid straight. Forced the kid into the army. He served a tour in Iraq and got himself the big chicken dinner for dealing drugs. Private contractor picked him up for their illustrious ranks six months after he finished serving time at Leavenworth."

Gibbs listened intently. He vaguely recalled reference to a DC cop and a gun that didn't belong where it was found. Beyond that, he had no knowledge. However, Parsons' comment about ballistics now made a bit more sense and set Gibbs' mind at ease somewhat with sending McGee into the field that day.

"He was hired by Simocorp?" Gibbs ventured.

"Got it in one," Kort said as he started toward the stairs. "Not sure where he is now. Last known place of official work was last year this hellhole populated by Marines in Helmand Province called Foxtrot Camp."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come.


	43. Chapter 43

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Gibbs' House_**

The hour hand on the clock slid toward 12 as Gibbs called it a night in the basement. His eyes were growing fuzzy and his hands tired from several hours of working on his new project. He had just turned out the light in the basement on his way to the couch when he caught sight of something in the back yard.

The moon was full and cast a bright light on the yards making the individual on the back stoop in the yard diagonal to his clearly visible. The house behind him was dark, and the figure outside sat alone on the back steps staring at something in his hands. _Probably his phone_ , Gibbs guessed.

It was late, and he was sore from several hours of intricate initial work on his new endeavor, but a sense of duty compelled him to step out his back door and cross the expanse of lawn separating the two properties. Despite the bright shimmering silver light from the moon, his target was startled when he spoke as he arrived.

"What are you doing?" Gibbs asked.

"Boss?" McGee jumped to his feet then sighed relief. "I, uh, I didn't notice you. Is something wrong?"

"Yeah, it's nearly midnight, and you're sitting out here playing with your phone," Gibbs said.

"Oh, yeah," McGee nodded. "I was, uh, just… It's hard sometimes not being able to talk about some of what we do with anyone but the team. I was texting with Tony earlier. He had a theory about strippers in some movie he saw, which has nothing to do with the case so… I was just here... thinking."

Gibbs nodded. His senior field agent was known for his late night epiphanies on cases, returning to the office in the wee hours when he got one of his ideas, but he was also one of the best at putting it all behind him when he called it a night. His partner, however, had yet to learn how to turn off the noises in his head.

"So he's letting you know to drop it for now," Gibbs said. "Take the hint, McGee. Let it go for the night. Pick it up in the morning."

McGee sighed and nodded halfheartedly. It was apparent to Gibbs what had happened. McGee had left the office but not left the case behind. He didn't feel he could share his thoughts with Abby. At some point, she fell asleep and he found himself away with questions churning in his brain. Gibbs knew about sleeplessness. It was part of being a Marine. They trained you to deal with extremes and, even after having bid daily life in the Corps goodbye, somethings stayed with him. Teaching them to his teams was easy. Teaching them when to let it something drop was not because he didn't know how to himself.

"You tell Abby what happened today?" Gibbs asked.

McGee nodded.

"She already knew," he chuckled miserably. "It still upset her."

"Bound to," Gibbs offered. "It's just who she is. You know that. She okay?"

"Yeah, she's fine now," he replied. "Getting shot at is never any fun and it was… It wasn't easy today, but that's not really what's bothering me. Boss, I just keep thinking… We had Reeves right there. She was talking to us. She knew something, or she said she did. Now, everything she knew is gone. She was murdered right in front of us. Well, between me and Tony, but still…"

Gibbs nodded. A lost witness was always a defeat no matter if they fled, changed their story, or died. Losing one that seemed valuable always stung. Losing one the way his agents did…. Thankfully, it almost never happened, but almost wasn't a perfect score.

"I still don't remember ever meeting her when I was a kid," McGee shook his head. "I thought maybe seeing her or hearing her voice might trigger something, but she was a total stranger to me. The more I started thinking about it this evening, the more it bugged me."

"What did?" Gibbs asked.

"From what you and Ducky said and what Penny told me, this woman messed with my head," he said with a hint of anger. "She made me forget or mis-remember something from that Tiger Cruise, but I don't know what. Ducky said even regression hypnosis won't help get it back. I know I should care about why she made me forget and what it was, but that's not what's bothering me the most."

Gibbs sighed again. He looked at the earnest and disappointed look on his agent's face in the chilly darkness and could read his thoughts as if they were a book.

"You're wondering if what she did is what caused the problems between you and your father," Gibbs offered and received a surprised confirmation from the wide-eyed look he got in return. "You rarely mentioned your father at all when he was alive, and I only met the man once, but those two things tell me all I need to know to answer your question."

McGee continued to look at him with interest and hope that he could provide answers.

"The relationship you had with your father wasn't forged in an hour long session with a shrink when you were eight," Gibbs said. "Maybe it would be easier to accept if that was the case. Then you'd have been wronged by a stranger rather than him, but that's not what happened. Tim, your father had two families: the Navy and his blood family. He only made one a priority, and it wasn't the one you were a part of. He didn't make that choice because of something you said or did when you were 8. It had nothing to do with whatever Reeves made you forget about an afternoon on a boat when you were a kid. Tim, he had 8 years with you prior to that weekend and a couple decades after it. His choices on all those days are what determined his relationship with you."

McGee accepted the analysis regretfully yet gratefully. It wasn't coddling and it wasn't needlessly harsh. It was just straight truth. If all his troubles with his father had been Reeves's fault, it would be easier to get over and re-evaluate his relationship with the Admiral using that new information. Unfortunately, Gibbs was right. One hour erasing a few details didn't change the countless days when the Admiral was deployed and had no time to check in with his family, never made time for school events, or birthdays; it didn't change every harsh word, every look of disappointment, every criticism the man spoke or every missed opportunity to say what he felt.

"I know," McGee said eventually as he shook his head. "I don't normally think of him this much. It's just lately…"

"Hard not to think about your own father when you find out you're going to be one," Gibbs offered. "I wouldn't worry, McGee. You won't make his mistake of not getting to know his child. He was a damn fool. You're not."

McGee nodded thankfully. He would live with the regret that he and his father lost his lifetime. There was blame on both sides, although most did reside with the man who chose the Navy and his career over fatherhood. While his own job was demanding and time consuming, McGee vowed he would not do that.

Still, in the midst of pledging his devotion to being an engaged parent, he felt a weight on his shoulders about the past. He needed to find out what happened on that cruise. Of course, the easiest way would be to ask Carter Scott, but he was still in the wind. If what Gibbs learned while in Afghanistan was true, then his friend had gone around the bend and possibly had a few screws loose. A look at Scott's full military record showed plenty of action in hot spots around the globe, none of which McGee ever wanted to experience, but there was also no sign of the man cracking under the strain and pressure of SEAL life. Without him around to answer (hopefully competently) the mysteries in McGee's past would remain locked up forever.

"Who do you think killed Reeves?" McGee asked suddenly.

He knew Scott was a sniper for his platoon. There was no reason to think he shot Reeves other than so much of this case seemed to twist and turn back on itself as each new detail unfolded. McGee made his peace with his friend being a SEAL and what that job required long ago. Killing was part of a SEAL's job, but killing and murder were two different things, and there was no doubt Reeves was murdered.

"Whoever pulled the trigger is who killed her," Gibbs answered. "It was a hit, McGee. Our guys found listening devices in her apartment not long ago during their search. Someone had the place bugged. The building manager said someone from the cable company was let in to her apartment a few days after she moved in to get her setup."

"And the cable company has no record of her getting an installation call?" McGee guessed.

"You got it," Gibbs said. "She didn't have cable in the apartment. Bishop got Reeves phone records just before she went home. She only called one number: Base Exchange at Little Creek."

McGee hung his head. Another clue that told them nothing. If she only had contact with one person, then conceivably, only one person knew she was in the area. She only mentioned one person in her talk with him and Tony. She seemed to be in the area at the man's request as well.

"I can try and trace how the call was routed," McGee said.

"Yes, you can," Gibbs nodded, recalling that the agent had done precisely that once before he was even on Gibbs' team.

"But Boss," McGee said sourly, "if it leads to Porter, it won't enough for probable cause to bring him in for questioning. And even if somehow it was enough, I doubt the Navy will let you unless you have a lot more than just probable cause. You'll need more concrete and damning evidence than hearsay from a junkie and a single call to a Navy base. I'm not even sure what Reeves said to Tony and me can convince a judge to sign an arrest warrant. It won't be easy getting permission or opportunity to question Porter. He's a rear admiral upper half."

Gibbs smirked. Hearing McGee acknowledge the unfairness of the military justice system was a sign at how far he had come in his tenure as an agent. It wasn't that Gibbs enjoyed anyone learning the hard truth of inequities that existed, but it was proof that his agent had learned his lessons.

However, he still had more to learn, Gibbs mused. McGee knew quite a few of the highest ranking admirals—more than Gibbs had ever met—and the younger agent looked to them with an ingrained respect and viewed their rank as an exulted post, which it was in many respects.

But there was a considerable difference between a two-star admiral and a four-star—and Gibbs got none other than the big brass himself, John McGee, in his interrogation room at one time. He regretted that after the fact—not that he questioned the man about a murder but that his son had to learn while watching from the other side of the glass that his father was suffering from a fatal illness. However, Paul Porter was no John McGee. Gibbs wasn't worried about getting access to a simple two-star who didn't have such high placed supporters.

"Not all admirals are created equal," Gibbs offered slyly as he looked up to see a light turn on in an upstairs window at McGee's home. "And a whole fleet of them are a lot easier to handle than a pregnant wife who's worried that she just woke up and found her husband gone. Call it a night, McGee, and get inside."

McGee nodded as he too spotted evidence Abby was awake and likely walking through the house in search of him as lights started glowing inside their home.

"Any advice on what to tell her I was doing out here that won't make her worry more?" McGee wondered as the kitchen light turned on, spilling a soft glow into the yard, followed by the door opening and Abby leaning outside.

"Gibbs?" she questioned as she huddled in McGee's FLETC sweatshirt over her spider web PJ pants and fuzzy red slippers. "What are you two doing?"

"We're not talking about strippers—that's DiNozzo's conversation," Gibbs nodded then wandered back across the darkened yard toward his property.

McGee's eyes went wide with surprise then he turned to see Abby's face less shocked. She merely nodded and called goodnight wishes to Gibbs, who waved over his shoulder while McGee ushered her inside to keep her from getting chilled or following his boss to ask more questions.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Vance's Office_**

The director clenched a toothpick tightly in his teeth as he stared menacingly at his phone. The voice emanating from the speaker was crisp and clipped as he informed Vance that there was nothing more he could disclose from his spot as the lead in the investigation.

"Director," Parsons said in a testy tone, "I told you everything I know. I understand that trying to make Agent Gibbs follow rules is like trying to get cats to march in a parade, but he heard the same warning you did."

"A warning that has no substance," Vance recalled. "If one of my agent's lives is in danger, I need to know what the threat is. I can't assign a protective detail if I don't have cause. There's been no evidence provided to us to demonstrate a credible threat even though two of my agents came under fire yesterday while escorting a witness in this case."

Parsons seethed. Reeves was not necessary to his case per se as she was unreliable due to her past. Still, she could have been used for leverage. She had been off the radar for a while and Parsons was taken by surprise to heard of her death. He wasn't aware she was even near the Metro area and had no idea who called in the tip that led to her discovery.

"I've got a sniper taking out my witnesses," Vance said hotly. "Do I need to worry about my agents being next?"

That, Parsons sighed to himself, was not something he could answer. McGee had been safe since he left Afghanistan the first time. The suggestion that he was not was a cover of sorts. Certainly, there was the possibility he could be dragged back into this mire. After all, he was specifically targeted at that base—Parsons knew that for certain. The whole point behind insinuating McGee was a target still was simply to up the surveillance on him in case Carter Scott appeared. What Parsons knew told him McGee was the most likely person the vanished SEAL would contact, after 10 months as a ghost however, he needed to rethink his theory. He needed to find Scott. Letting the eager and protective eyes of NCIS do the legwork for him still seemed like the best idea. If that meant offering a few outlandish suggestions, so be it.

"There is a chance the shooter was Carter Scott," Parsons said. "I've got no proof it was. That's just a theory being kicked around."

"Did Reeves treat Scott as a kid?" Vance asked.

"I haven't confirmed or debunked that," Parsons said. "There is the chance that he might have been protecting someone by killing her—if it was him. Look, I can't say for certain he would go after McGee, but if this theory is true, then anyone who poses a threat to Paul Porter could be in the crosshairs. Seeing as Scott knows McGee and your agent is part of the team closing in on Porter, I believe that elevates his value as a target."

Vance huffed. He was being shined—he knew it. He was also having a discussion that he could not ignore. It tied his hands in so many ways. That morning Gibbs brought him an alternate theory, one that was 180 degrees opposed to Parsons on Reeves death. He seemed to think Scott was in hiding for his own safety rather than the one doing the hunting.

"I'll take that under advisement," Vance said stiffly. "You've dragged your heels long enough, counselor. You get me some warrants soon or we'll take out the cuffs and start doing it our way."

As he hung up, he looked up at Gibbs who sat silently on the other side of the desk. Vance offered him a questioning expression.

"Oh, he knows something," Gibbs nodded. "He's not telling us everything. Of course, that might be because he's starting to worry he doesn't know as much as he thought he did before."

"What do you recommend?" Vance asked. "About McGee, I mean. I just put him back in the field three months ago. Do I bench him again? If there's gunman out there looking for him, letting him out of our sight and in to clear lines of fire is unconscionable."

Gibbs nodded. If what Parsons said was true, Vance would be correct. If the agency was just being used, taking McGee out of the lineup just crippled the team and slowed their part of the investigation.

"If someone wanted to kill him, they've had a lot of chances," Gibbs offered. "He wasn't protected in the hospital in Baltimore. He wasn't protected at his mother's place in Dallas. He's been back here since July without anyone checking the dark corners or building tops."

"So you think Parsons' is lying, too?" the director snorted. "I like how he outright avoids a Federal obstruction of justice charge by saying it's just a theory and has been suggested. Don't you have a rule about lawyers?"

Gibbs smirked.

"Several," he replied. "None of them apply here. If it was me, I'd give him some latitude, Leon. He's obviously got something. He doesn't want us messing it up, but he still needs our help."

"Uh huh, I got that," Vance grunted. "What about McGee? Protection or not?"

Gibbs sighed as he shook his head. It might be a fateful decision, one that could have dire consequences, but he had trusted his gut so far.

"He doesn't need it," Gibbs said. "He's federally trained and certified in security."

"You're saying he can watch his own back?"

"I'm saying his team has his back when he's working, and he can take care of himself when he's not," Gibbs offered.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Abby's Lab_**

A light April shower pecked at the high, half-round windows as Abby returned to the lab from her trip to the vending machine. She looked up and shook her head as she realized her devoted lab visitor for the day, McGee, had not even noticed her momentary departure.

Not that he needed to know. He was in her lab to avoid the noise and chaos in the squad room and had special permission from Gibbs to hide out in the quiet confines of the lab to finish reviewing several digital recordings given by a now-deceased naval officer whose death the team was investigating that week.

She watched him concentrating with such rapt attention and grinned. From the reflection in the glass partition opposite his laptop, she could see his expression and she knew for certain that not only was he listening for something of relevance in the case, he was listening to the man's complex lecture as though he would be tested on it later.

It made her smile as her mind flashed to the first time they worked in her lab together more than a decade earlier. If she had known then where their lives would go…

She sighed and shook those thoughts from her head. They were not about the past. They were focused on the present and cautiously eyeing the future. To keep from getting too badly sidetracked from staring at McGee, Abby tore open the package of crackers she recently purchase when she started feeling queasy yet again. While she did not enjoy the sensation, she took the fact that she did feel that ways as a good sign for it meant everything was still moving along.

Her next appointment, in a two weeks' time, would have the results for the tests that concerned her most. The first trimester was now behind them and the tests showed good results, the fetal nuchal translucency test, the two maternal serum blood tests, the PAPP-A for placental proteins and the hCG test were done. None revealed any genetic or chromosomal defects, but at her doctor's caution they were holding out revealing their news until after her appointment, which was delayed to until the week 16 mark, so they could conduct Alpha-fetoprotein screening. That would look for open neural tube defects, spina bifida, chromosomal abnormalities and defects in the abdominal wall of the fetus—any and all of which would destroy their hopes for a health child. She knew the result levels that were considered optimum and the dangers of high results, a possibility that increased exponentially for women over 35. Those numbers haunted her each night as she fell asleep, wrapped in McGee's arms, praying to a God she hoped existed and was listening.

Although science was usually her refuge, a place for concrete answers and stability, she found herself fearing it slightly. Science held answers, and there was no way to ignore that whatever answers she received from those tests would alter their lives forever one way or another. She and McGee spent quite a few hours discussing those possibilities, but Abby found that the closer the date drew to get the results, the greater her fears because she had, against all better judgement, begun to hope. She promised herself at the start that she wouldn't do that. She would not get her hopes up. She would not let herself dream and plan until she knew there was high probability such optimism was called for. She told herself she would be clinical and objective so that she could approach this hurdle with a sound mind.

But things were changing rapidly; she was changing, and actually starting to feel pregnant rather than just tired or nauseous.

She knew it was hormonal shifts, and she could discuss the complex chemical reactions occurring, but that didn't mean much when she found herself struggling into some of her wardrobe as certain articles of her clothing were now tight in a way that was not comfortable. Principles of science were of little value when she caught herself looking at herself in the mirror and noticing the subtle but to her eyes undeniable changes taking place; and clinical approaches were out the door whenever she saw someone pushing a baby stroller in the fresh spring air and felt a pang of envy in her heart.

Adoption, she contended, was still a wonderful and beautiful way to add to a family—a way she had not dismissed as an option for the future—but she could not deny that she wanted this child she carried—greatly, to the point of torrents of tears streaming down her cheeks anytime fear and doubt welled up in her about her upcoming tests and their results.

She understood completely McGee's desire to tell their friends and family their news, and they would, soon, but not before they knew whether the baby had any fatal defects that might not allow it to thrive and come to term. Any other problems, they could deal with and work through, but first she needed to know that the fetus was considered medically viable. Her doctor could not speak in absolutes, but all agreed that the most telling test were the next round.

Abby sighed as she munched on a cracker and tried not to wonder if the waist band on her pants was actually a little snugger that it was that morning or if it was just in her head as McGee contended whenever she muttered such sentiments lately. He was more optimistic than she was about what would happen next, although he limited his enthusiasm to simple platitude remarks that everything would be okay. Still, she could sense his excitement and his frustration. He wanted to tell people their news; she even sensed he felt a bit guilty not doing so. For example, when she mentioned how they might tell Gibbs and the rest of his team, McGee got jittery, making her wonder if he felt badly for lying to his boss and teammates all this time. When she asked that very question, he changed the subject swiftly.

In the middle of her musing, Ducky arrived in the office area with an evidence container in hand. As the rest of the lab was free of technicians, he walked toward her desk to find her snacking while watching McGee focus intently on the computer in front of him.

"Abigail, I have something for you," he said as he handed over his offerings gaining her attention as she spun in her chair to face him. "These are the scrapings from Major Balfour's nails that Tony requested I deliver for your technicians. There is particulate matter embedded in the dried paint we scraped that might prove useful; although, at first glance it does not appear to be human tissue; I will leave that determination to your machines."

"Oh thanks," she said signing the evidence log after shoving yet another cracker in her mouth. "I'll leave this for Curly. I know he was hoping to get to it after lunch. Tony's been on him to find evidence to prove that the wife did it."

"Ah yes, the old standby," Ducky smiled. "Well, I have no idea if this will help Tony win his bet in the squad room, but I suspect we will find some answers in it."

"Bet?" Abby asked as she put the evidence on the table. "What bet?"

"Oh, I believe Tony and Timothy have something of a wager on this one," he revealed. "I am not privy to the terms, but I suspect a sum of money and bragging rights are likely on the table."

As he spoke, he looked again curiously at McGee who continued working oblivious of the doctor's arrival. The agent did not turn or acknowledge the medical examiner in anyway.

"Betting on the identity of the perpetrator," Abby shook her head as she spoke with her mouth still slightly full. "Oh, and I've got crumbs. Sorry. This is why I don't allow food out there in the trace evidence area of my lab, especially addictive crumb makers like these."

She brushed off the dusty debris from her T-shirt into the trash then slipped on her cloaking lab coat.

"Yes," the medical examiner noted slyly. "You seem to have developed quite a fondness for them lately. Have you replaced your Caf-Pow with crackers?"

Abby shrugged guiltily. It probably seemed like an accurate theory. The previously omnipresent caffeine infused juice was no long gone and saltines and celery sticks were always within her immediate reach for they were the only things that seemed to keep her queasiness at bay.

"I guess," she said and stole a brief look at McGee who continued listening to his recordings oblivious to the discussion. "It's like when people quit smoking. You need to do something to replace the physical sensation of the thing you are quitting. I guess I can't get enough of my crackers."

Ducky nodded and regarded her thoughtfully. There was agitation in her expression and her answers, but her demeanor lacked any aspect of being distraught. It was Ziva who first raised the doctor's suspicions a few weeks earlier, but since then Ducky too had noticed subtle things that the physician in him could not ignore.

"I see," he replied. "As I recall, you gave up your caffeine fixation rather abruptly while Timothy was away in the winter. I mention this only because you've attempted to break its hold on you several times over the years without success until now. Apparently, you have a renewed and superior motivation. What I find equally as interesting is that I am told that you convinced, or perhaps decreed, that Timothy would do so as well."

Abby nodded and said nothing further. She had asked him to give up the majestic energy giving drug with her. She knew caffeine was not overly detrimental to fetal development, but she did not feel it was right to keep ingesting it despite how much she craved it normally. She also made McGee give it up as well. It was more a strength in numbers philosophy for her.

"What is Timothy doing?" Ducky asked, narrowing his eyes on the aloof agent. "He seems rather detached from us at the moment."

"Oh, he's not ignoring you," Abby explained. "He can't hear you. He's got earbuds in so he can go over the Major Balfour's last lecture on multi-modal binary interfaces. He thinks there might be something the major mentioned in the lecture or something in the questions afterward that will be relevant to how he died. Gibbs let him come down here to review the recordings because it was too loud in the squad room; they're replacing the wiring in the overhead lights after that last short nearly caused a fire."

Ducky nodded. It had been chaotic upstairs with a new murder investigation—that of Major Balfour, a top professor at the Naval Academy who was killed while guest lecturing at Waverly University. Meanwhile, the old lingering case they were still following continued to chew on Gibbs' nerves. Added to that, the team also tackled two unrelated hit and run fatality cases and was now working amidst the maintenance going on to upgrade the lighting system. Chaos was a polite term for the insanity in the squad room of late.

"Ah, well, I wish him luck," Ducky said. "I do not know whether he or Tony is right on who is responsible for the Major's death, but I feel confident between the two of them they will figure it out. I must say, it seems a bit like old times coming in here and seeing the two of your hard at work, even if you aren't working together directly. I was just thinking that it's been an age since I saw you both together at all. I trust all is well with you and Timothy. You've both been very… distant lately."

Abby stuffed another cracker in her mouth and nodded. She shrugged to Ducky with an archaic smile that said nothing and a great deal at the same time.

"Everything's fine," she assured him. "McGee's just focused right now. Between you and me, I think Tony's going to end up being right on this one, but I'm not getting in the middle of it. I can only hear McGee's rant on Tony's process and proclivities toward pointless movie references so many times before…"

She stopped short of saying something like _before I want to puncture my eardrums with butter knife_. It wasn't that she didn't care about his frustrations; she just found she was too fatigued normally to engage in those discussions for very long.

"That sounded cranky, didn't it?" Abby grimaced as she shot an apologetic look toward her husband, who still appeared unaware he was being discussed at all.

"A bit," Ducky nodded with a smile.

"I didn't mean to sound cranky," she sighed. "I just get a little punchy and cranky in the afternoons sometimes lately."

"Oh," Ducky noted with interest. "Is that so?"

"I'm just not… entirely me right now," she back peddled. "Or, I am me, but a different me. I guess. Just a crazy few weeks gone by and a couple more coming up. Never enough sleep it seems."

"Yes, you have seemed rather tired recently," the doctor said strategically. "It's nothing contagious, I hope."

"Oh no, it's completely normal," she said with a relief sight then bit her lip at the innocent slip of the tongue. She swallowed guiltily and cut her eyes quickly toward McGee who had not moved. "I mean, it isn't anything wrong. Everything's good. That is… I feel fine."

Duck regarded her thoughtfully for a moment and chose not to let he squirm. He patted her warmly on the arm as he nodded understandingly.

"Very well," he smiled. "I shall leave you to your feast of tummy settling crackers."

He turned to leave but stopped as she called to him.

"Ducky?" Abby grimaced. "Are you hinting at something? Because if you are, I wouldn't be angry, but I wouldn't be able to confirm whatever it is you think right now."

He returned her enigmatic smile.

"I suppose both of our offerings are open for interpretation," he said carefully. "For my part, I was merely observing. Nothing more. I may think something, but I do not know anything for certain, my dear. I merely have a keen eye, and it leads me to certain theories. Do you have knowledge of something which might be considered newsworthy but that you are keeping from people for personal reasons?"

Abby sighed gratefully and hugged him quickly.

"You do know," she remarked quietly as she let go of him and chanced a quick glance at McGee who was still none the wiser. "If everything goes well at my next appointment, we'll tell anyone, and by that I mean, the thing that you evidently figured out that I am not telling you."

Ducky smiled widely and lowered his voice.

"I take it by your silent exuberance that you've been worried but that all is well thus far?" he remarked.

Abby placed her hand on her abdomen briefly then nodded.

"Very well," she smiled. "So well that I'm feeling… hopeful and ecstatic finally, when I'm not feeling nauseous that is."

"Are you alone in this feeling—the hopeful and ecstatic part, I mean?" Ducky asked as he stole a look around her to McGee.

The agent had been oddly quiet and aloof in recent weeks. Ducky was not sure of the reason, but he had noted it and was beginning to worry, especially when his wife's condition became (at least to the doctor) obvious.

"We are equal in the overjoyed department," she reported as she beamed. "He's just been twisted in knots between keeping this secret and me not letting him set up a security perimeter around me. Now that we're nearly at the magic date, he's eager to tell everyone, but… like I said, we're not there quite yet. I just need one more round of results."

Ducky nodded and smiled with relief. He had hoped that would be the answer.

"It's a good thing he's so focused on this video clip that he has no idea you're even here," she confessed. "If he knew I'd confirmed what I haven't told you…"

"Would he take issue with it?" Ducky wondered.

"Not exactly," Abby said as she cast an adoring smile in McGee's direction. "He'd grumble for the rest of the day because I broke the rules that I won't let him break. Trust me, Ducky, he's really, really happy about this. I'm talking like levitating out of his shoes excited."

"As well he should be, my dear," he said and planted a dry kiss on her cheek. "You have my word as a gentleman and a scholar that when the time for the joyous announcement comes, I will certainly be waiting to give my heartiest congratulations to the both of you. It will be wonderful and surprising news, when I hear it."

He winked at her conspiratorially, but his confidence in letting her know he had figured out her secret raised a few questions for her. She leaned toward him, lowering her voice again, as she tugged her lab coat more tightly around her.

"Is it obvious?" she wondered. "I thought I needed to start concealing the, uh, evidence of it, but so far no one else seems to have noticed. I figured Tony as odds on favorite to pick up on… some things."

She looked down at her chest and blushed slightly at the new silhouette she had developed recently.

"But he hasn't made a single remark to me or McGee," she said then ran her hands over the newly developing bulge at her waistline. "Am I wrong and none of this is all that obvious yet? I mean, I work with highly trained investigators. So far, you're the only one who said anything. If they're not seeing this, then I'm wondering if I need to get my eyes checked or if they all do."

Ducky chuckled lightly and shook his head.

"I could flatter myself and say the changes are only evident to the clinically trained yet, but that would be an exaggeration," he replied. "Although some of what you are hiding under your lab coat has recently become apparent, I think the lack of questions you have received are just good manners on the part of others. I cannot speak for anyone in the squad room, but I know several people in the building are eagerly hoping to hear an announcement soon."

Abby nodded, taking the explanation gratefully. She was beginning to worry about the observation skills of the investigators. Even Gibbs even seemed totally oblivious. Then again, she reminded herself, the agents were not spending long periods of time with her now that her techs were doing most of the hands on work. Plus, she was hiding behind a lab coat much of the time.

"Hmm, you may be right," she nodded. "Now that you say that, I did notice that Jimmy looked like he wanted to say something to me the other day, and I swear Ziva has been giving me this funny little smile whenever I see her lately."

Ducky smiled and pledge his silence to her as he departed. Abby returned to her desk, stuffing another cracker in her mouth as she spoke quietly to her secret, something she had begun doing in the last week when she was alone and feeling anxious.

"Please don't take any of this secret business personally," she said as she rubbed her belly. "We're not ignoring you or denying. We just have worries and there's a process for dealing with them. Keeping you under wraps is part of that for now. Just know that no matter what happens, and even though we might sound scared sometimes, your daddy and I are really happy you're here."

McGee took that moment to pull out the earbuds he was wearing and offer her a flat expression.

"Talking out loud to him and referring to me as his father is probably going to let the secret out," he noted plainly. "Maybe we should just…"

"McGee!" Abby scolded and left her seat to slap his arm in reprimand. "You were listening the whole time Ducky was here, weren't you?"

"You mean when you were telling Ducky about him?" he wondered as he pointed to the darkened screen beside him. "I saw Ducky in the reflection of that monitor so I turned down the volume and overheard you."

"Because you don't trust me," she charged.

"I did until you told Ducky what you won't let me tell anyone else," McGee countered.

"You're wrong, by the way," she said.

"I am?" he blinked. "You're going to change your mind and we can tell…"

"No," Abby cut him off. "You're wrong was about saying _he._ I told you from the start that there is no _he_ in me."

He smirked. He was glad for a few reasons. First, she broke her rule—doing made him feel less guilty for telling Gibbs weeks earlier. The good news was, on both accounts, that they each told the only other people in the office who would keep their secret. Next, she was starting to let herself believe that there was something good on their horizon. Her angst and worry over the past couple months would come to an end soon and she seemed ready to accept that, which would cut her stress level in half.

But he knew that saying that would just make her anxious again (and possibly prompt a voodoo ritual in the kitchen with some vile smelling candles and herbs to ward off bad luck), so he focused on what wouldn't put her on edge.

"And, for the record," McGee continued, "I don't rant about Tony, and I wouldn't grumble the rest of the day. However, since Ducky knows and apparently other people already suspect, why are we waiting to tell everyone? Dr. Shinseki said everything's fine so far. Maybe now is good time to…"

Abby sighed and rubbed his arm understandingly but shook her head.

"Not yet," she insisted. "I have one more battery of test to go through. After we have those results, and if all is well, we can tell the world. I know you want to tell everyone and I want us to have good news to tell them. It's not much longer, Honey."

The elevator chimed distantly as Abby kept her eyes focused on her temporary lab squatter. His expression was frustration mixed with understanding. He had begun suggesting they should choose a room for the nursery and start making plans for that. She was eager to do that as well, but like from the start, he had been the greater optimist in this. She was counting the days until she felt she should share in his confidence.

"Of course, by the time we're able to say anything, we won't have to tell anyone," Abby remarked. "Seriously, Tim, how can people not pick up on this? I thought it was going to be a lot harder to keep this hidden."

"It's not as obvious as you think," he assured her as voices sounded in the outer lab.

"Really?" she remarked quietly. "I got out of the shower today and looked in the mirror. I'm starting to not recognize my own body. I can assure you that I have not always looked like this."

"You don't look that different with clothes on, Abby," McGee assured her as he turned just in time for Tony to walk into the room in search of answers about his trace evidence.

However, he stopped dead in his tracks and glared at McGee and the pink flush on Abby's face.

"Hey, enough of that trash talk, Probie," he said. "This is a place of business. Save your sordid stories of striptease for after hours. Some of us could get offended."

McGee sighed and rolled his eyes before replacing the earbuds to return to listening to the professor's dry lecture.

"This from the man who used to brag about earning frequent flier miles from porn sites," he muttered.

"Abby, if this man is bothering you, I can have him removed," Tony said as he cuffed the back of McGee's head.

Abby gave Tony a frosty look of warning then gently pat McGee's head as he immersed himself in his recordings again.

"No, I like having him here to torture if I get lonely," she smiled at the senior agent. "Come with me. Curly was going to take care of your trace when he gets back, but I'll get it loaded in Major Masspec to get a jump on it for you."

Seeing Abby and McGee together in the lab was a bit like old times, Tony thought. Of course, back then McGee was usually there to get in whatever little from-afar worship time he could before she banished him. However, that was not the only thing that seeing them in the lab brought to his mind.

Tony nodded his thanks as he watched her quickly and efficiently prep the sample and load it into the machine. It had been a while since he saw her do any of the more menial chores in the lab. She was now queen of the vetting and analysis process for her three techs, leaving the grunt work to them mostly. He grinned, again feeling like old times, as he looked at her carefully.

"Something's different about you," he said with a critical eye.

"What do you mean?" she asked cautiously.

"I don't know," he said looking at her and shaking his head. "It's something. Did you cut your hair? Get new lipstick?"

Abby smirked and shook her head. If Tony guessed, she would have to think of something fast. There was no way he would keep their secret to himself. She looked at him warily as he suddenly grinned and pointed at her.

"Oh," he nodded. "I got it. How did I miss that? You're not wearing your collars and spiky things."

Abby sighed and shook her head, smirking at his discovery. Granted, she had stopped wearing the more sharp pieces of her jewelry the night she went to the hospital to see McGee the previous May out of fear that she might get them caught on a tube or a wire or even scratch him. She just had not gravitated back to those specific adornments since then. Her other cuffs and bangles were often in place, but those had dulled edges.

"Can't get anything by you," Abby replied with a relieved grin. "No spikes on today."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _National Mall_**

Fornell breathed a lungful of air sweet with the last wisps of the Cherry Blossoms. The sky was dark and threatening more than the simple shower falling as sudden heat rolled over the Tidal Basin at the tail end of his lunch hour. He stuffed the last of his hotdog, the one his doctor told him he shouldn't eat ever again, into his mouth as savored every last salty chew. They were always better when someone else bought them. He grinned his thanks to his lunch date.

"It's the little things in life we need to celebrate more," Fornell said.

"I'm not going to hold your hand if it starts raining," Gibbs said flatly. "You going to tell me what you think or did you just drag me out here because no one will have lunch with you?"

The FBI Supervisory Agent snorted and shook his head. They might be best friends, but that didn't keep him from thinking the former gunnery sergeant was an ass half of the time.

"He's screwing with you," Fornell nodded, agreeing with Gibbs' theory on Parsons. "He needs help but doesn't trust someone in your agency, I'm guessing. You say it's just your team and Vance that know?"

"As far as I know," Gibbs replied.

"Not a likely crew for leaking," Fornell agreed. "Chances are better someone in the ring is suspicious and getting nervous. Whatever Parsons knows that we don't is what scares him. He's losing control of it. You know what that means?"

Gibbs nodded as warm rain continued to fall from the bruised sky.

"We've got jobs to do," he replied.

"We're planning a sting," the FBI agent said. "We've been working with the data from laptop McGee pirated and broke the codec on last summer. We're kicking around ideas, but we think we can grab the original programmer and the leading trafficker if we play it right."

"DEA?" Gibbs wondered.

Usually when there was an operation that would involve a large drug piece, their sister agency would join in the fun, but Fornell shook his head.

"Your ring's got some routes into the DEA," he said disappointedly. "We've got most of the one's we've identified under surveillance. We'll move on their financials and them just after we got the programmer and his employer."

"When?" Gibbs asked.

"It'll be a while," Fornell said. "We're in the gathering stages for ID'ing the trafficker, and his computer nerd is a crafty son-of-a-bitch. Once we've got a better handle on them, we'll put some plans together and see what the boys upstairs will bless. Once we're ready to go, we'll get it rolling in a matter of days."

Gibbs nodded. Fornell was good at that sort of thing. Undercover was where he cut his teeth as an agent, getting in close with the mob, and getting out with convictions on the books and all organs still functioning. If anyone in the government was going to run an operation of this kind to take down a drug kingpin, Gibbs would pick Fornell.

"You going to ask us to the party if you go after the Navy connection too?" he asked.

Fornell smiled at the frustration he heard and the slight hint of offense that the team who discovered this mess might be left out. He turned up his collar as the rain became more steady.

"Those sailors will be all yours, Jethro," he promised. "You may even get to put the cuffs on before we do. The Navy side of things is just one of the trafficker's modes of transportation for his product. It's a big, secure one, but it is only one. They'll get worried if you roll up their delivery service, but it won't stop them. We'll clean up what's left over when you're done taking your swing at this."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come.


	44. Chapter 44

**_A/N:_** Since it's -7 degrees where I am, you all get a chapter I wasn't intending to write simply because it is too cold to do anything else.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

Bishop blew her bangs out of her eyes as she stared half-blind at her computer screen.

Something was up.

Or wrong.

She wasn't sure which, but it was one of the two.

Unless she was just overtired like Gibbs said.

Well, he called her a menace to field work actually, but he meant it because she had gone three days without much sleep and was causing some concern among her team. That it was the boss's fault didn't seem to play into Gibbs's critique of her capability to join the rest of the team when they were called out to a suspicious fire with death resulting at the Naval Air Station at Patuxent River that morning. Bishop lifted her eyes to the windows to see a bright spring day taunting her with its energy and lively atmosphere.

She curled her lip and sneered as she stifled a yawn.

"I heard you might need this," Palmer's voice boomed over her shoulder.

Snapping her head up from where it was hanging low from her fatigue, Bishop looked up to see him holding a tall cup of coffee for her.

"Jimmy, I think I love you," she sighed gratefully as she gripped the cup with both hands.

"I know, I get that a lot from you guys," he smiled bashfully. "How are you doing? Tony mentioned you might be lonely back here. McGee said you might be comatose."

"Tim said that?" she scrunched her eyebrows.

"Well, he said you might be asleep on your desk or sitting up still working in your sleep," Palmer offered. "He was actually a bit grumpy today. That might be because Tony made him carry the extra gear from the van since you weren't there to help."

Bishop scrunched her face. Something had been bothering McGee when he arrived that morning. He was distracted and intent on finishing up his paperwork from the previous day without interruption. Tony's air assault from a fleet of paper airplanes earned a few stern stairs, a warning growl and finally a quick yet definite snap when the antics did not desist. What the root of his agitation was, she never found out fully. He mentioned his mother was arriving for an unexpected visit that weekend but did not elaborate.

That alone seemed odd. McGee was far from dimwitted. A visit from his mother that weekend should not have been a surprise. First of all, Sunday was Mother's Day. Second, and perhaps more importantly, that day was also the one year anniversary of the day he was shot. Having met and spoke with McGee's mother often while he was still in the hospital, Bishop fully expected Carol McGee to visit that weekend. Why it seemed to surprise McGee was worrisome. Again, it was his distracted nature lately, she supposed. His only good fortune it seemed an uncanny ability to hide it from Gibbs (mostly), who only offered a few stern glares and barked an order or two twice whenever it seemed McGee hadn't heard the first time.

Still, the aloof behavior and sullen, moody silences of the past couple weeks had gone on long enough. Bishop had decided she would confront McGee that day about her concerns.

Or that had been her plan until Gibbs rolled through the room with a "grab your gear" announcement. Bishop definitely heard McGee scoff and groan at the order. One glare from Gibbs got his feet moving, but apparently from Palmer's report hadn't improved his attitude.

"McGee wasn't himself when he arrived today," Bishop noted, drinking in the magical liquid.

"I heard Tony asking him when Carol would be around because he wanted to invite her to lunch," Palmer revealed. "That's probably all it is: Tony getting on his nerves. I wouldn't worry about it much."

In truth, Palmer was a bit more concerned than he let on. It had been several weeks since he thought there would be some exciting family news from the McGee/Scuito ranks, but all remained quiet on that front. Not even his teammates seemed to have a clue what was going on, and that's where his worry resided. The lack of announcement had him sick at heart for it meant there were likely problems. Keeping those worries and suspicions to himself seemed like the only support he could lend his friends.

"When did you and Ducky return?" Bishop asked oblivious to the assistant medical examiner's apprehensions.

"About an hour ago," Palmer replied. "We'll be autopsying our crispy guest when Dr. Mallard returns from lunch."

The case looked relatively straightforward from the text messages and crime scene photos the team forwarded her. A maintenance garage at the base caught fire just before dawn. When the firefighters doused the blaze, they discovered a body inside. The ID at the scene indicated it was a master chief assigned the base. The ID would be confirmed with dental records (hopefully). The cause of the blaze would be determined by a little forensic work (in theory). The motive would be determined by some interviews and the culprit caught after that (with any luck).

Or so they hoped.

"What was so important that Gibbs left you behind to take care of it?" Palmer asked.

"I'm tracking down a missing defense contractor," she said simply. "A gun that might have been in his possession was used in a crime last year that has renewed interest. We need to talk to him about it, and Gibbs wants answers yesterday. Finding this guy, however, is proving a bit more difficult than expected."

"On the run?" Palmer asked.

"It seems that way," Bishop yawned again then missed her desk when trying to put down her up; the liquid splattered on the floor and over her shoes. "And that is actually why Gibbs left me behind, I guess. I'm a danger to myself and everything around me apparently."

Palmer nodded as he stepped away from the mess and grimaced. He got less dirty during an autopsy.

"I see what you mean," he remarked. "Tony and McGee might have end up working longer on this scene being one down on the team, but that's better than you accidentally compromising a crime scene."

Bishop took the comment as well as possible. She didn't find it accurate; it wasn't like she'd have coffee at the crime scene. Then again, she reminded herself, she did accidentally erase two voicemail messages on her phone when she meant to listen to them so perhaps Palmer had a point. Gibbs apparently thought so as well.

"How much longer do you think they'll be?" she asked.

"A while," Palmer replied. "What was left of the garage and the probable point of ignition was still pretty hot. They were still waiting for the all-clear to start going over all of the burned out space. Why? You thinking of going rogue and heading out to join them?"

Bishop shook her head as she finished cleaning up her spilled coffee. Disobeying Gibbs would be unwise. She had learned about the rare instances when her teammates had done so and did not think her career sufficiently stable yet to try something like that. Tony could do it because of his longevity. McGee because of his sincerity. Her secret power was as yet undiscovered in the Gibbs-will-give-you-a- pass book.

"No, Abby called looking for them," Bishop replied as she lifted her phone. "The area where they are on the base is in the radius where the electronic radar research drones take off and land. Cell coverage is spotty. She tried reaching McGee but doesn't think he's getting his messages."

Palmer nodded. He noted his phone went off line the closer he got to the body's location.

"Ah, so that's why," he remarked. "I was thinking it was going to be one those X-file cases we get sometimes. Guess Tony and McGee won't be double dating with Mulder and Scully today."

He laughed and grinned at his joke but received a blank stare in response.

"Mulder and Scully," he repeated hopefully. "From the show? They investigate aliens and electrical fields are rumored to be… You know what, I'm going to just go downstairs to see if Dr. Mallard is ready."

Bishop nodded as she dialed her phone. It was answered before the end of the first ring.

"Are they heading back?" Abby asked anxiously.

"Uh, not yet," Bishop said. "Jimmy was just here, and he said they are still waiting to get a good look at the scene. It's still pretty hot from the fire. It sounds like they will be gone a while."

"Oh," Abby said disappointedly. "Okay."

"Is there anything I can help you with?" Bishop offered. "I'm having no luck getting my job done. Do you need me to…"

"No," Abby said quickly yet dejectedly. "I just had something to take care of and McGee was… Well, I'll catch up with him later. Thanks."

Abby hung up quickly and sighed as she slumped at her desk. The lab was quiet as the technicians waited for the next onslaught of evidence—one that was apparently delayed. She looked at the clock on her computer screen. It was 70 miles from Pax River on the Chesapeake in Maryland to the Navy Yard. That was an hour and a half away. Even if the team began processing the crime scene at that very second, McGee would not be back by 4 p.m., which was when Abby's appointment—the one they had been waiting for—would begin.

That was the trouble with McGee's job: the unpredictable schedule. It wasn't always crazy and hectic, but when it was there was no means to normalize it. She knew he wanted to be there with her for this appointment. In truth, she needed him there for support, but that just wasn't going to happen.

Blinking back stress tears—they were always close to the surface lately—she grabbed her phone and sent him another text message. She knew he would be on edge with the change in their plans for the day, but he needed to think about the case at hand. Her message was short and simple: Heard you're stuck there. It's OK.

She would tell him whatever she learned from the doctor when he got home.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _NAS Pax River_**

Tony supervised the scene tech shoveling another bucket of debris into a bucket for Abby's people to sift and sort. His nose, he announced, told him the accelerant used was jet fuel.

"Jet fuel on a naval air base," McGee remarked sourly as he took photos of the scene. "Your investigative skill are amazing, Tony."

"Ha!" Tony barked. "They are second to none—in this case that means you are not even none."

The sun was bright, and there was a slight breeze. The otherwise pleasant afternoon was only marred by the constant scream of the jets taking off an landing a few hundred yards away.

"Everything smells like jet fuel," McGee grumbled.

"Au contraire, McSourPuss," Tony continued. "I can smell trouble in paradise."

"Catch a cold, DiNozzo," Gibbs commanded. "McGee, walk over to the tower and see if they have the security footage keyed up for us."

McGee striped the camera strap from his neck and handed the device to Tony before departing. The senior field agent watched his partner leave still sporting his day long scowl.

It had been a while since McGee was in any mood fun enough to pick on him. That this did not stop Tony was irrelevant. The senior field agent knew something was bugging his partner. It was something big and nearly all consuming of his mind. Tony was pretty sure he had it figured out but wasn't sure what to say or how to say it. He and McGee shared many things, but that didn't mean they talked about them.

"You going to do anything with that camera other than stand there holding it, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked snapping Tony out of his musing.

"I could pose for it, but I never saw myself quite as a model," Tony replied flippantly.

"Or you could finish doing what McGee was doing," Gibbs sternly suggested.

"Okay, but when he complains for the rest of the case that I didn't take the picture from just the right angle or at just the right setting, that's not going to be my fault," Tony offered. "He seems to think he's better at shooting and sketching crime scenes than I am."

"Yeah, well, he's right," Gibbs noted. "He does it by the book."

Tony opened his mouth to argue but found he could not. Tony did it by the book as well, the book of DiNozzo. Sure, he listened at FLETC when they ran him through their program. He graduated in the middle of his class without trying much. The book stuff, he knew from his days as a cop, was for those who couldn't think on their feet or who made bad decisions regularly. Tony was a free thinker and a natural investigator. He excelled in the physical pursuits, the armed situations and the tracking of leads. The paperwork part was… for probies. He grinned as he made his argument come full circle.

"I have a better case closure rate than he does," Tony said.

"You do," Gibbs nodded as he continued to survey the scene and point at things he wanted photographed. "But JAG lawyers prefer working with him. Know why?"

"Because he does things by the book?" Tony offered. "I need to do things my way, Boss. You know who taught me that?"

"Frank Sinatra," Gibbs answered assuredly as he found more suspicious looking spots of the charred concrete that needed photo capture.

"Well, yeah, actually but what I meant there was," Tony began then stopped as he felt the full weight of the icy blue glare. "Never mind. Boss, you know, I'm all for tough love, but you might want to cut McGee some slack today. I'm getting the vibe that my probie is about to blow a gasket. Something's bugging him and I'm pretty sure it's Abby related."

Gibbs looked at his senior field agent with a raised eyebrow. He was not aware Tony had been paying sufficient attention to his teammate, other than the normal sophomoric prank kind, to notice something was out of the ordinary. Granted, Abby rarely came through the squad room any longer. Whether that was merely a coincidence or because she was isolating herself as they waited to hear more news from her doctor, Gibbs did not know. He suspected it was the former. Not that McGee was giving anything away. He was busy spending every available moment at the office searching for a lost SEAL, focusing his worries on something he felt he could manage, a global electronic surveillance net searching for a single man out of more than six billion people.

"Let it go," Gibbs suggested.

"See, what I think," Tony continued, "is that she's feeling a little ignored since he's all super sleuth looking for his little A-W-O-L- S-E-A-L. And McGee, he's all tied in knots because he hasn't found Scott yet. I mean, sure, he basically found Elan Bodner a few years ago just using a laptop and a search engine, but he had Ziva helping with her contacts as well. Doing this on his own is taxing his mental reserves."

"Kind of like my patience," Gibbs said.

Tony nodded, taking that tart hint to heart. It had, however, confirmed for him something he suspected. Whatever was going on with McGee, Gibbs knew all about it. His lack or worry or interest was a major clue. His lack of scolding of McGee indicated he hadn't found fault with anything Probie had done. That left something going on with Abby that both men knew about but neither was mentioning.

The not mentioning part worried Tony almost as much as McGee's sour attitude.

It meant there wasn't good news behind all the tight lips and worried glances.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _JAG Headquarters_**

 ** _Falls Church, VA_**

Vance was led into the dark paneled office by a yeoman in his crisp white duty uniform. Admiral Nathan Bates stood to greet him heartily.

"Leon," the gruff man with the salt and pepper hair said offering a firm handshake. "It's been too long."

"I see you're settling in," Vance noted. "I take it your predecessor left the office in good shape."

"Always have do to some clean up after the Marines pull out," Bates chuckled. "How has it been? Four years? The senate subcommittee on military intelligence hearings, wasn't it?"

"I believe so," Vance nodded. "You had a lot to say about nonmilitary assets being allowed access privileged information. You tried to take my agency to the woodshed."

Bates nodded and smiled. Those were the games that were played on the Hill when budgets were at stake. What he believed didn't matter. What he did was follow orders.

"Can't disobey a direct order when it comes from the top," he offered. "My commanding officer was not precisely a fan of your agents."

"I'm well away of what the man was not a fan of—he fathered one of my agents," Vance said sternly.

"I didn't know that at the time," Bates shrugged. "John McGee was a hard man to know. He had some valid points—valid enough that Sec Nav blessed me taking his concerns to the Hill and solid enough that the White House was considering him for a cabinet post before he got sick."

Vance grunted his acknowledgement. When he told Gibbs several years earlier that John McGee was a pain in his ass, he wasn't talking about the case that had pulled the man into their field of interest. It was the man's persistent attempts to shut NCIS out of any information sharing that had international or security implications. The Admiral's goal was to protect the Navy so the Navy could protect the nation. Vance's aim was to protect the Navy from itself and from those who would harm its personnel. Adding to the mix the man's dislike of the agency was his son's choice of career. Thankfully, as far as Vance knew, McGee remained oblivious of all the political havoc his father nearly cost the agency just because his nose was out of joint that his son didn't follow in his footsteps.

"I didn't know John had a son who worked for NCIS at the time," Bates said. "I was special counsel for Sec Nav liasioning with the committee. Hell, I didn't know John even had a son until he died and I read the obituary. I only found out the kid worked for you when this Afghanistan business happened."

Vance nodded. The mention of the "Afghanistan business" was, he suspected, at the heart of this abruptly scheduled meeting. The newly installed head of the JAG Corps had summoned Vance on the guises of greeting his new counterpart in pursuing crimes against the Navy and Marines. What the actual point of the discussion was, Vance did not yet know but felt they were at the point of revelation.

"He's not a kid, Nate," Vance said. "He's a special agent who has 13 years with the agency. He's a member of my major case response team. That his father saw no value in that is a mystery not even my investigators can solve. So, what do you want to discuss?"

Bates sighed and rocked back in his chair slightly. He was a politician with a nice military pedigree. He knew how back rooms worked. He knew how to push buttons without moving a muscle. He knew how to apply pressure when needed and when he was being squeezed for someone's purpose. His best skill was staying out of the spotlight unless an award or accolade was being handed out.

"What are you doing at the Navy Yard?" Bates asked plainly. "I'm hearing things about classified documents being requested by OIG in your behalf for a Rear Admiral who just got a damn humanitarian award from the UN. There's rumor of a committee involving FBI and OIG with NCIS feeding them information. The goddamn alphabet soup hurts my head, Leon."

Vance folded his hands and nodded. He felt that way some days. He looked around the office and smirked. He was brought here, surrounded by military uniforms, to sit a in a dark office and be intimidated. He grew up on the wrong side of Chicago and knew a thing or two about maneuvering in and out of tight places. He was a fighter and while his degrees didn't include a JD, that didn't mean he knew nothing about the law.

"We have a lot of investigations," Vance said. "It's what we do. OIG is free to pursue any line of inquiry they choose—that's the benefit of being an agency with the ability to inspect any other federal agency. As for the classified nature of any evidence, you know as well as I do that disclosing classified information without proper need-to-know protocols in place is illegal, Nate. Sorry. Can't help you."

Bates nodded. His curiosity was more annoyance than anything. He was getting an earful from his colleagues at varying levels about some secret taskforce NCIS had allegedly set up. That there were so many in the Navy that feared such a thing gave Bates a moment of pause. Worries like that usually meant there was something to cover up, but like those with quaking knees, he wasn't sure NCIS was the instrument he wanted bringing the nastiness into the light.

"I can't tell you to drop what you are doing," Bates began.

"No, you cannot," Vance shook his head. "A smart man like you wouldn't even try."

The admiral grimaced. He told his chain of command that Vance wouldn't be easily intimidated. He withstood three hours of hard questioning in front of the subcommittee and never once asked for a recess, conferred with his counsel or even took a sip of his water. He was unflappable.

"Just give me something to get these magpies flapping around me to shut up," Bates relented. "What the hell are you looking for?"

"Justice," Vance said as he stood up from his chair and buttoned his coat. "We have weapon that was far, far from where it should have been and it was a crime against the family member of a naval officer. That's where all of this started. If your magpies have a problem with us investigating crimes against the family members of Navy personnel, they can take that up with Sec Nav and Congress."

He nodded once then showed himself out. Sure, his stamen was willful misdirection but none of it was a lie. Vance grinned as he walked out of the office to meet his driver and return to the Navy Yard. He now had his answer for why Parsons was being so cagey. The chatter he feared wasn't coming from NCIS. It was coming from the dizzying heights of Navy brass, which meant someone with stars on his shoulders was feeling the pressure.

"Good meeting, sir?" his driver asked as he spied Vance's grin.

"It'll make Agent Gibbs happy, that's for certain," he said.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Abby and McGee's House_**

McGee entered the house feeling pensive. He was anxious but trying to keep that emotion in check and off his face. He had not received any detailed follow up messages from Abby that afternoon or early evening. What that meant, he did not know. She left him a voicemail message that simply said she was home and would talk to him when his day was done.

On its face, it seemed to be a simple message. No dire warnings. No pleading for him to rush home. On the other hand, it didn't give him any indication that all went well or that they were ready to lift the veil on the secret they had been keeping.

As a worrier, McGee tended toward thinking something was wrong in any situation where he was faced with the unknown. As an investigator, he had to admit that there was insufficient information in her message to make any determination. As a believer in logic, he suspected the truth was likely that her appointment got rescheduled and she knew nothing more so she had nothing to tell him.

Of the three choices (good, bad, no news), he dreaded the third the most. The waiting was wearing on both of them—Abby most especially. She needed and wanted answers; it pained McGee to see her agonize through the waiting.

"Abby?" he called as he entered through the side door that led to the driveway.

The sun was setting, and there was a light on in the living room. He swiftly locked up his gun in the strong box that sat on a shelf just outside the living room, which he then entered to find her sitting on the couch wiping a steady stream of tears from her eyes. The sight crushed his heart. He recalled, in startling flash, walking into his father's hospital room just before Christmas two years earlier to find his sister sobbing at the man's beside as Penny swiftly embraced him delivering the news that his father had died. For as miraculous as it was retrieving that memory, he did not care in the least for the feeling he felt then was utter dread, and it was revisiting him tenfold at that moment.

"Hi," Abby replied seeming startled to see him standing there. "I didn't hear your car."

McGee crossed the room on weak knees as she stood to greet him. She wore a wide but watery smile that stole his voice. He feared what she would say. He had been the one preaching optimism this whole time, countering her worries about complications and devastating statistics with his wait-and-see philosophy. Feeling that crumble within him, he embraced her with a breaking heart.

"You should sit down," she said sounding much more composed than he felt. "I've got things to tell you."

McGee nodded and did as she requested, swallowing dryly as he noted a dozen or so papers with the hospital's logo in the corner scattered on the table. He averted his eyes, not wanting to see any of the text, and squeezed her hand.

"Your appointment?" he guessed.

"Yes," she nodded as she knuckled tears out of her eyes but still managed a smile. "Sorry. I'm a mess. I've been… I wanted to pull myself together before you got here, but never mind. You're here, and I'm ready. Alright, remember when I did the test in February, and I told you I was having a baby?"

McGee nodded distractedly. He was not apt to forget that night, ever, although at the moment he sort of wished he could if it would release the cold knot in his chest.

"Well, I got part of that a little bit wrong," she said cagily.

"Wrong?" he repeated and scrunched his brow in confusion then he blinked as the color drained from his face. "How was it wrong? You had another test after that. The doctor confirmed that you're pregnant. You've been to the doctor a few times. How could that test be wrong today when it wasn't previously? Did something… Did you…?"

It seemed improbably, impossible even, but if she had had a miscarriage that very day… McGee's wide-eyed expression conveyed his deep and terrified thought to Abby, who began shaking her head vigorously.

"No, no, hold on," she commanded as she cut off his worrying as she pulled pieces of paper off the coffee table and handed them to him. "That's not the kind of wrong I meant. The result in general was right—obviously. I mean, my wardrobe needs a couple more inches lately, but that's not what I was talking about exactly."

McGee blinked and looked warily between her and papers she handed him. It was a variety of screen captures of a sonogram. Her voice quaked, but it wasn't from being on the verge of breaking. It sounded more like elation. She smiled at him in weary but eager way; however, there was a touch of shock there as well. Her expression made his heart rate increase.

"So you got good news?" he asked hopefully.

"The best," she cried and kissed him eagerly then embraced him. "I didn't mean to worry you. I'm just… a little scattered. I've just been sitting here and… I'm just so… Everything's okay. Better than okay actually."

McGee exhaled with relief as he held her shaking in his arms. He worried for a split second until he registered that she was shuddering from a combination of crying and laughing for how overwhelmed she was. For his part, he simply felt spent. All the days and nights of worrying since the middle of February added together were nothing compared to the crushing feeling he felt when he walked in and misread her tears for anguish rather than euphoria.

"So we're going to have a baby," he remarked.

"No," Abby shook her head and pulled away from him.

"What?" McGee gaped. "You just said everything is okay. What do you mean we're not having a baby?"

"Exactly that," she nodded as she handed him the pictures. "We're not having **_a_** baby. We're having two. Meet Baby A and Baby B—our children."

What happened next seemed a lot like those out of body experiences people who survived horrific accidents or died briefly on operating tables claimed to have. McGee felt completely detached from his body. He knew there were sounds and tactile stimuli around him, but he heard and felt nothing for several long blinks. All he could see was the crinkle around Abby's eyes as she grinned joyously at him.

"Timmy, did you hear me?" she asked.

"Two?" he remarked as his chin dropped. "Two? As in twins?"

"Uh huh," she nodded briskly as several tears spilled out of her eyes and raced down her cheeks. As she sniffled and wiped them from her face, her expression grew concerned as she stared at him. "Honey, you need to breathe."

He continued to gape and look for his voice without luck as he turned his attention to the pictures she thrust into his hand. With his free arm, he reached his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She kissed him aggressively then nestled into his side.

"You look like you just got hit in the head with something heavy and hard," she chuckled.

"Kind of how it feels," he nodded finding his voice. "In a good way, I mean."

"So does that mean you can't handle hearing more about his?" she wondered.

"There's more?" he asked as his voice cracked.

"Kind of," she nodded as she pet his hair. "Think back again to when I was wrong and told you we were having just _a_ baby. If you recall, we had a little bet of sorts over whether it's a boy or a girl. We were going to wait until the birth to find out."

"You found out?" he asked. "You were adamant you wouldn't."

He wasn't overly surprised she found out. He suspected from the start that she did not want to know for certain the sex of the baby because she wanted to keep some distance in case her nightmare came true and the pregnancy was deemed inviable. Calling the baby a girl was one thing; finding out it was a girl would have been something else too hopeful for her prior to knowing her worst fears were not coming to pass.

"Well, I was adamant I wouldn't get married at one point and that I would never have a baby, too," Abby shrugged. "I was wrong about those, which now makes me question whether I can claim to be a woman of my word after all."

McGee sighed, taking her tangential comments as further proof that their long, tense waiting game was officially over as she sounded more like the woman he fell in love with and married in that moment than she had during her many weeks of anxious, heart-wrenching waiting.

"Abby?" McGee prodded. "You said you had more news. You know what the baby… uh, babies are?"

"Yes," she smiled. "I'm sorry I found out when you weren't there. I was just so shocked to hear there were two and they were perfectly okay that I blurted out the question to Dr. Shinseki. She had a new assistant who answered before the doctor had a chance to ask me if I wanted to rethink that request. So, remember how I said the baby was girl and you said it was a boy? Well, it turns out that I'm right."

McGee grinned then shrugged in his defeat, unconcerned that he had been wrong. Two girls. He could handle that. His daughter would be the first to break a family tradition. Breaking rules and setting new trends just showed that she took after her mother, and he was fine with that.

However, it seemed Abby was not yet done.

"And you were right, too," she offered.

He blinked at that statement as she tugged the pictures from his fingers and continued her report.

"What?" he asked sitting up straighter. "One of each? A girl and a boy?"

"Yes, your proclivity toward overachieving and pleasing those you love apparently knows no bounds—not even biological procreation," Abby said. "The McGee DNA luck on firstborns holds; although, in the stats you'll probably need to put an asterisk next to this one—assuming he's born first. If she greets the world first, then I win—no asterisk."

"This isn't major league baseball," McGee shook his head then turned his attention to the pictures again. "Which is which? Sorry. I mean, who is who?"

Abby grinned at his grammatical correction. She knew his comments previously in calling their hidden project "he" had mostly been a means to keep her thinking positive mixed with his own wishful thinking. Now, with the dark and threatening clouds having cleared the horizon, their future, their family, was real. He grinned in a giddy way as he gazed at the pictures with an expression she felt could most closely be described as rapture.

"Meet our son, currently named Baby A," she explained as she pointed to the proper image. "I know it's a little odd being that boy begins with a B, so you might expect for him to be labeled with that letter, but Dr. Shinseki found him first and took his picture first. Therefore, he's Baby A for the time being. There was a whole lot of surprise in the exam room when she discovered our baby girl, otherwise known as Baby B at this time. Here and here, you can see their heads and their little arms and little legs. The little buds here are their hands and those are the feet. So, what do you think?"

McGee concentrated on each picture, seeing the tiny beings and as his eyes feasted on them. They were real. They were alive, healthy and growing—at that very second.

"They're ours," McGee marveled at the pictures as his grin shone brightly while he placed his hand on her belly. "They're… amazing."

She let him revel in the images for a few more minutes. The timing of the news was fortuitous. His mother, they learned recently, was planning to visit for Mother's Day the following weekend. While McGee thought that a surprising bit of news, Abby did not. It was a sign of how focused he was on the present rather than the past that the anniversary of the attack in Afghanistan had slipped his mind. Abby saw no reason to remind him, particularly when their future was of greater interest. Carol's visit would be nicely timed as it would allow them to tell their family and friends at roughly the same time. After the previous year of so much angst and worry, this was one unexpected bit of news that would be a welcomed surprise.

"I think we should celebrate," Abby said after she gave him a full recounting of her appointment. McGee smiled slyly in agreement. "Okay, I meant go out to eat first—then we can see about that little grin you're wearing."

His expression swiftly turned serious.

"You didn't eat dinner yet?" he asked with concern. "Abby, it's nearly 8 o'clock. You're usually heading to bed now. You get sick if you don't dinner at…"

"Hold on," she interrupted. "I said go out to eat. I didn't say I didn't eat yet. I'm saying I could eat again. I'm craving cinnamon waffles—I have been since I ate dinner earlier. Besides, we haven't gone out on a date since before you went overseas. It's your turn to take me out, Mister. We're going to Kasey's Diner so chop-chop, get moving, McGee. Your pregnant wife is starting to feel voracious. This whole eating for three thing is a delicate balance."

As she spoke, she got up and walked toward the door. McGee smirked at her command before going to the hall closet and removing one of her coats. He held it out for her. She offered him a questioning look.

"It's getting dark so it's get chilly," he said.

"Okay the manners and logical are nice, but I don't need a jacket," she said. "It won't get below 60 degrees. Besides, we're on a date. You're supposed to keep me warm."

He shook his head briefly then returned her jacket and removed one of his that he then draped over her shoulders.

"Ah, chivalry," she smirked. "Or are you marking your territory?"

"Humor me," he replied.

"Okay, but let's agree on something," she said as he grabbed his car keys from the table then ushered her out the door. "You are not going to coddle me. What Jimmy did for Breena was sweet but she wanted to kill him near the end. Keep in mind that I am so much more creative than she is when it comes to that kind of thing. I know you were listening inside when I pregnancies involving twins are more complicated and require more monitoring. That doesn't mean you will do the monitoring of my every move during the day. This is the breakdown of responsibilities: Dr. Shinseki will oversee all medical things. I will take care of all gestational things. You are in charge of… catering to my whims."

As they walked to the car, he assured her that he would not suffocate her by hovering around. He felt he could promise that as there were countless ways to remotely watching over her when she would out of sight. Certainly some might term that as stalking, but he would disagree. He thought of his plan as more about being an attentive spouse and responsible parent.

"No electronic surveillance," she offered as she determined why he capitulated so swiftly.

"Abby, it's my duty to take care of you," he said as he opened her door for her.

She pointed out him in a determined way.

"Whims," she asserted then looked across the street to the Henderson's home.

The retirees had an obscenely large screen TV, a Christmas gift from one of their children who never seemed to visit. It glowed brightly in their front room as though there was a spotlight shining toward the street.

"What is it?" McGee asked looking cautiously toward the quiet street as the sensation someone was watching them returned yet again.

He got it from time to time since moving in with her. If they were inside, he would have checked for stray electrical current that sometimes occurred in an old house. Outside, there was just the sensation at the back of his neck that someone was watching. He had mentioned it to Abby in the past. Her theory was that they had a nosy neighbor who liked to spy on newlyweds. Feeling the prickle along his neck in the darkness with Abby so close heightened his senses. Instinctively he reached for his weapon, which was not on his hip as he had locked it up in the house.

"Nothing," Abby said easily as she gestured toward the house across the street. "Lloyd and Margie must have gotten their cable fixed. I saw the maintenance truck was here when I got home. The guy was up on the pole fixing something. They should get a new provider. That's like the fourth time since we moved in that they've been around to fix something."

McGee nodded, unconcerned and uninterested in the neighbors' ability to watch 500 channels on their TV the size of a bed. For someone like Tony, that might be a concern. For McGee, who rarely watched TV for anything other than local news, he didn't see the point or the interest in wasting his hours away from work on procedural crime shows, reality TV, moronic comedies, or predictable dramas.

Two hundred miles away, a bearded man took note of the couple departing the small Craftsman style home in the old Arlington suburb. He looked at his watch and then to the notes he kept from previous viewings.

"Timothy and Abigail, you have not left the house together at night in weeks," he remarked curiously as he pulled up another feed on his laptop. "Just where do you think you are going?"

The GPS signal from the tracker he attached to McGee's car several weeks earlier was strong. The voyeur watched with interest as the car took off (at a predictably sensible and lawful speed, he chuckled) toward its destination.

"It's not nice to break pattern without warning," he scolded as he watched the car's progress. "Don't make me come up there."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Kacey's Diner_**

McGee sat quietly as he listened to Abby bubble over with her thoughts on paint—specifically the color she thought was best for the nursery. He had no preference. His head was still swimming from the revelation that there would be not just one but two McGee's joining the family by the time Thanksgiving rolled around.

Sure, there was worry. Twins could have complications. The cost of everything after the birth was double what you expected. There was two times the difficulty getting child care and two times the worry whenever they were out of your sight, but he couldn't get himself to lend too much energy to those concerns. His wife was giving him a rational sounding lecture for why a shade she described as soft tangerine would be best. Somehow Dr. Seuss was involved in her choice, but he hadn't quite followed that part of the discussion.

"Sounds great," he said agreeing easily. "I'll paint next weekend if I'm not working on a case."

"We'll paint," she nodded.

"No," McGee shook his head. "I'll take care of that. You did the hard part of picking a color and then explaining it to me. I'll do the actual painting."

Her expression grew sharp and she put her fork down, leaving the last bites of her waffles to rest sadly on the nearly empty plate. McGee gazed back unsure what he had done that earned him the sour look.

"You're not going to do this," she shook her head. "McGee, I told you when we left the house…"

"You told me I'm not allowed to put a security perimeter around you," he cut her off gently. "I happen to disagree for several reasons, not the least being that I'm specifically trained in how to do that kind of thing. Next, it is necessary. I'm not saying you need an armed guard following you, but sort of an extra eyes and more sensitive sensors in the lab is not a bad thing."

Abby groaned as she heard the sincerity in his voice and saw the intensity in his eyes.

"It is a bad thing when the only reason you want to tweak the security system in there is to keep an eye on me and our science project," she said. "There is no more danger in the lab this week than there has been at any point in the last 10 years."

"Precisely," McGee agreed eagerly. "I think history shows that a lot of things have happened in the lab that were dangerous and that better security in there would have helped. There's been evidence that was tampered with to release cyanide gas; you've had homicidal lab techs; there was even video voyeuristic serial killer who was spying on you."

Abby shook her head. The janitor camera was hardly aimed at her. It just got discovered when the night cleaning man entered her lab and his rigged lunchbox was with him. He wasn't even the bad guy in that case, she noted.

"Now that I think about it, that last one surprised me most," Abby said pensively.

"The Cyber-Vid killer surprised you more than people actually in the lab trying to hurt you or sabotaging evidence to try and kill you?" he gaped.

"No," she grinned at the silliness of the suggestion. "It surprised me that you didn't go the cyber-vid killer route for a book. That would have sold big time back then, Mr. Gemcity."

McGee ground his teeth and seethed quietly as she wrinkled her nose at him. This sort of thing didn't happen to Agent McGregor, he told himself. Then again, he mused, Agent McGregor was under the delusion that putting distance between himself and his beloved forensic scientist would cure his smitten heart. _What an idiot_ , McGee sighed internally. Still, McGee contended, to be fair, he would never have written the Cyber Vid Killer story because it would have given the actual killer a sense of accomplishment. There was also the issue of McGee having stopped writing more than a year prior to that case after another psycho thought Abby was actually the character Amy Sutton and that she was a threat to McGee/McGregor. The whole idea, however, was yet another reason that extra security around her seemed like a wise idea.

"Abby, I'm being serious," he groaned as he dragged his mind back to reality.

"I know, that's kind of the problem," she replied with a slight chuckle. "You have been so positive and upbeat the whole time I was worried about all these tests. Don't lose that now, Tim. Listen to me: I am fine. I practice stellar lab safety. My lab itself has never harmed me. It loves me—nearly as much as you do—so it protects me."

He grumbled under his breath as he pushed his half eaten omlete (a quarter of which Abby stole for herself) around his plate. If he was being a bit overprotective (and in his mind that was a big if) then she was being irrational, and frankly the case for that seemed a bit stronger. However, he knew better than to say a discouraging word about the lab. It was bad enough that he sometimes suspected he might one day need to challenge Major Masspec to a duel over her honor and affection.

"Fine, the lab is your Utopia, but not everything in the lab plays by your rules," he countered. "I'm just saying it's probably past time that NCIS ups security in there—for the integrity of the evidence if nothing else so that it matches the level of integrity for those who work there."

Abby slowly shook her head and raised her eyebrows as she processed what he said.

"That is the biggest load of bull I have ever heard, and keep in mind that I had an uncle who ran a sideshow in New Orleans," she informed him. "McGee, listen to me. My techs are all well-vetted—Tony and Gibbs did their background checks. My guys are all highly competent and quite trustworthy. They will not do anything that makes the lab dangerous. I am also highly competent and would never do anything that compromises the safety of anyone in the lab. I hope you believe that."

McGee sighed and offered her an expression that showed he agreed but still was not willing to give up on his concerns.

"There's nothing you can say that will make me stop worrying about you," he said placing his hand on top of hers on the table.

"I understand," she said calmly. "You can't help it. You are pathologically predisposed to fretting."

"I don't fret," he gasped.

"You do," she nodded. "I know because I can be that way, too. Here is the difference: I am a scientist, McGee. I need evidence—not simple history—to develop a theory that spawns worry. You are… nervous."

McGee scoffed. Five hours earlier, she was teetering on the edge of despair and now he was the one… He stopped himself before he finished that thought. This was Abby. When things were bad, her whole world was sad and murky. When she was happy, the whole world was bright and perfect for her. He much preferred her confident chiding that he was being overprotective and wantonly nervous, even if he didn't agree that's what he was doing. Wanting a more secure workplace was just good sense. That his desire for rapidly and drastically increased measures only found its way to his vocal cords after he learned she was carrying their twins was merely a coincidence. Questionable timing did not make him wrong.

"So?" he scoffed. "Gibbs trusts his gut. He's always telling me to do the same. So, now I am. I think changes would be a good idea."

Abby laughed at the intensity of his scowl and the determination on his face. It reminded her of a toddler who learned the word no and was going to use it at will until he was blue in the face.

"Honey, you've been through so much in the last few weeks that I don't fault you for getting kind of territorial," she grinned at him across the table. "Actually, it's kind of out of your control. I was reading a medical study before you got home, and it reported on findings that suggest the pheromones the female body generates during gestation can create an increased protective response in the male hypothalamus, particularly the male who is in an intimate relationship with the expectant female. So I guess urge to put me in a protective bubble this is kind of my fault. I've ruffied you, unintentionally but successfully none the less.

McGee groaned as he pulled several bills from his wallet and let them on the table after it appeared Abby was finished her meal but nowhere near finished putting him through his paces for the evening. Despite the return in her chipper attitude, her eyes looked tired and she looked like she was going to start yawning profusely. With her chuckling gleefully at her opinion he was under her spell (one he did not bother to disagree with as he knew it was true), he escorted her back to the car while receiving more arguments in favor of him standing down on his protective detail suggestions for her.

"So it comes down to this," she summarized as they pulled into traffic. "Do you think I am good at my job? Tell me the absolute truth."

He sighed and scowled again as he nodded. Of course, he thought she was good at her job. She was the best in the agency, possible the best in the federal system, maybe even in all law enforcement in the nation.

"Things can happen even to the best in their field," McGee argued. "Besides, worrying about you in the lab isn't something entirely new for me, Abby. I go down there a lot to check on you—I always have, for years, and not just to see if you've got results for us."

"You did that out of concern?" she asked tenderly. "Aw, that's sweet. I always thought you were just down there to satiate your crush on me and undress me with your eyes when I had my back turned."

His instant blushed, which was as close to a confession as she figured she would get. She looked at him frankly and stated her case directly.

"I'm offering you a deal," she said. "I won't worry myself into anemia now that you're a field agent again if you afford me the same courtesy about doing my job. Let's agree upfront that concern is acceptable, but I won't freak out every time you step foot out of the office for a case and you won't hijack every security camera in the office to have it pointed at me all day long. Deal?"

McGee cut his eyes at her quickly. She was going to worry every time he left the office. That was a given. She did that for every agent she knew; granted, he believed her worry for him came from a spot deeper in her heart, but the principle was the same. Abby never wanted anyone to get hurt, but she knew all too well how dangerous and deadly their jobs could be. Reminding her that her lab, and even the NCIS building itself, were targets for bad things would do no good. So he offered a reluctant but accepting sigh.

"I have a list of chemicals I made up weeks ago that I cannot handle," she reminded him. "You looked it over and gave it your blessing as well. We agreed they are fairly exotic and highly unlikely to be used in the lab, but I took the precaution anyway. I also restructured the duties in the lab so that, for now, I only do tests that have the danger scale of a papercut. My staff does deliveries to and from autopsy. I even relinquished half of the ballistics duties so that I'm just analyzing the bullets after they are fired. Now, unless you can provide me with empirical proof that sitting at a computer looking at results and writing reports about them is more dangerous for my health than it is for yours, I think we can put this matter to rest."

"I don't like it," he grumbled.

She expected the nervous reaction from him. He was jittery, had been since the day they met 13 years earlier. What concerned her was at sometimes it rubbed off on her. For example, while it was comical that he wanted to keep their bedroom curtains closed at all times under the slightly paranoid belief that someone might be spying on them, she had gotten the same sensation once or twice lately as well. She would feel that creeping sensation along her neck like someone was watching her when she would walk from her car to the house on some evenings. Luckily, she usually shook it off within a few seconds and she was hoping he would learn to do the same with his hesitation about his worries for her at work.

"You don't have to like it," she said. "You should to stop worrying about it and you really need to stop complaining about it. Complaining makes you grouchy. You're not grouchy; you're happy, remember?"

"I can't be both?" McGee remarked as they arrived on their street. "I'm fairly certain my father was capable of doing both. I may have a genetic predisposition to the duality."

Abby groaned lightly then banged her head gently into his shoulder.

"Honey, don't take this the wrong way, but your father isn't someone you should aspire to emulate when we're discussing our family," she said.

As the car pulled into the driveway, he sighed. He tended to agree with her. Like he told Gibbs no long ago, he didn't normally think of his father but the man was popping into his mind more and more lately, which raised a point he felt they needed to address in the coming days.

"Speaking of my father," he said as he turned off the car, "my mother is going to suggest that we consider his name for our son."

It was odd to say those words with such a dichotomy of emotions. He was not interested in tagging his child with the moniker of the man who troubled him and who he missed greatly at the same time, yet the thought that there would be another generation to carry the name McGee thrilled him beyond words.

"How do you feel about that?" Abby asked. "I really like the idea of using family names, but…"

"Exactly," McGee nodded. "To me, my father's name was Admiral. Besides, John McGee is a little too much of a legacy to saddle any child with if you ask me. I was just the man's son and I couldn't manage it. Give him the actual name? No."

Abby leaned over and kissed his cheek. She meant what she said. She was open to considering any family name and felt that McGee should have the lion's share of the choice with the boy as she had already decided the name of their daughter. Just as importantly, she was certain McGee would agree.

"If you're sure," she said. "We've got a while to make up our minds. I'm sure a lot of people will suggest names so we'll have plenty of to choose from. What's that look for?"

McGee's face had suddenly taken on a surprised, almost dreadful, expression. He groaned slightly and put his face in his hands.

"Timmy?" Abby asked with concern as he began muttering the word "no" softly and repeatedly under his breath while climbing out of the car.

He was walking to her side to open the door when she got out in advance of his chivalrous approach. He hung his head and scowled.

"What is it?" Abby demanded as they headed toward the side door.

"Don't be mad at me," he said as he put the key in the lock. "See, there was the conversation I had with Tony a while ago…"

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come.


	45. Chapter 45

**_Notes:_** It's -9 now, and I've just written you another chapter. Come on, guys. Stats say there are 2300 readers. Any chance for a little review love to keep me and the rest of the MCRT warm? There aren't that many chapters left...

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Navy Yard_**

The sun was bright and a light breeze wafted off the water as Abby walked back to the office under the shade of her black, lace parasol. She and McGee made their announcement to their colleagues as the week started, and it put an even wider smile on her face. The congratulations they received were heartfelt and genuine. The only disappointing note was Tony and Gibbs' absence. Gibbs was in downtown all morning at a meeting with the FBI about some new joint endeavor. Tony was called unexpectedly as a rebuttal witness for a trial in Falls Church for a case that he assisted with more than a year earlier. Abby had wanted to wait to tell the office when everyone was around, but McGee convinced her it did not seem like that would ever happen. The good news was given to those the couple did see that morning, and they let the word spread on its own after that.

"The funny thing is," Abby said to her lunch companion, "I was worried all the agents upstairs hadn't noticed—and most of them hadn't—but what really surprised me was that my own lab techs hadn't noticed either."

"Well, I did not want to say anything," Ziva said as they crossed the small expanse of green separating the main building from the annex across the street. "I had my suspicions back in March, but I did not think it was my place to ask either of you."

"That's what Ellie said, too," Abby nodded. "So other than Ducky and Palmer, the only people who noticed were women. There's a lesson in that."

Ziva smirked by let the topic drop. She knew plenty of observant men and knew Abby worked among more than a few of them. The trouble was, as with most things in life, people became distracted by insignificant things and missed the larger world around them on a daily basis. It was only when something momentous, often terrible in nature and scope, that would open their eyes usually all too briefly.

"I understand McGee's mother is in town this week," Ziva noted. "She must be happy with the news she will be a grandmother."

"Happy doesn't cover it," Abby noted. "Carol is normally pretty reserved—McGee's a lot like her that way—but she shouted out loud in the restaurant during brunch when we told her on Mother's Day. It was good timing that we told her. You know that Sunday was actually the day a year ago that…"

"Yes, what happened to McGee," Ziva said swiftly, hearing the tremor in Abby's voice. "That was part of her reason for visiting, was it not?"

Abby smiled and nodded. McGee did not seem to realize that. In fact, they had not mentioned even once the events of a year ago that whole weekend. All the couple's thoughts were on what would be happening in a few months' time. It seemed strange to Abby to realize that. A year ago she was still in the dark about the attack and was eagerly awaiting McGee's return from his overseas duty so that she could talk with him about feelings she had been repressing and ignoring. Now, her fretful worries back then over what she might say and when she might say it seemed small and insignificant.

"Last year was another lifetime," Abby sighed as she rubbed the no longer hidden bulge at her waistline.

It was not precisely an obvious protrusion at this point, but it was straining the seams on her T-shirt. One of the most liberating aspects of telling everyone their news was that she no longer felt she needed to find camouflaging clothing to hide her new proportions each day. She dreaded the thought of maternity fashion but McGee's sister, a proclaimed professional shopping ninja, swore to Abby she would help her find items that were not hideous and that avoided the dreaded pastel rainbow. They had a shopping date set up for the next weekend as Sarah was overjoyed at relinquishing the position she had held in the McGee family for nearly 30 years as _the baby._

"And McGee's sister, how did she take the news?" Bishop asked. "I know there was some difficulty between you two last year."

Abby cut her eyes at the spy briefly as she recalled the former Mossad operative's uncanny ability to seemingly read minds. Ziva also had her own intricate intel network that fed her oodles of information that her mind captured and could summon with ease. Abby forgot sometimes that McGee had been in touch with Ziva through his recovery and afterward so much so Ziva was aware he was going to propose on the night he did so. He apparently vented his frustration with his sister's antics and tantrum the previous summer to his former teammate as well. It was odd and yet made sense. Like Ziva, McGee practiced strict privacy about his personal life, rarely revealing anything in casual conversation. Which was why it made perfect sense he might have confided in Ziva. His relationship with his former teammate was obtuse. They were so very opposite and did not precisely complement each other; however, the friendship was undeniable. They liked each other; they respected each other; they trusted each other with their lives.

"Has he asked you to be my bodyguard?" Abby asked suddenly.

"Are you in need of one?" Ziva replied.

"No, but I'll take your answer as a yes," Abby shook her head as the neared the entrance of the building. "If I did need one, you would be my second choice without a doubt, but I don't need one so ignore whatever Tim says on the matter."

Ziva smiled as the guard let them pass through security with her guest credential and Abby's building pass. She did not need to ask the identity of Abby's first choice. Gibbs was the obvious front runner.

They continued together into the elevator and to the squad room to see if the man in question had yet returned. Ziva was lingering at the Navy Yard for a brief meeting with him, the kind that was not entirely official. It was no so much that she had intel to impart as it was her suspicion that she would have something of interest to provide to him in the near future. However, a survey of the squad room revealed Gibbs was still out of the building. McGee was reportedly in MTAC with the director, and Tony was apparently still off site. Without being asked, Abby simply looped her arm through Ziva's and tugged her toward the back elevator, no doubt on the way to her lab.

"I can visit with you until Gibbs arrives, but you understand I must leave after that," Ziva said as she noted the tight grip on her arm. "You cannot keep in this building, Abby."

"I can try," she smiled.

They traveled in companionable silence down to the basement laboratory to find it not nearly as empty as Abby left it. Tony was exiting the lab just as they arrived. From the surprised expression on his face, he was shocked by Ziva's presence. He recovered swiftly and plastered his best poker face on.

"Hey, Abs and her stealthy tag-along," he said awkwardly to Ziva before turning his attention to the mistress of the lab. "So, I heard there's news you want to tell me. Is it true? You, me and baby makes, uh, four? Does McGee suspect anything yet? 'Cause I told him a few years ago that storks bring babies, and he seemed to believe it."

Abby accepted the teasing gratefully followed by a quick hug from the agent, who was having a difficult time keeping his eyes in one place. They kept swiveling from Abby to Ziva and back again.

"You wanted to ask me a few weeks ago," Abby challenged. "You only asked about my jewelry, but you suspected right?"

"Well," he shrugged and gestured toward her. "I do have an eye for detail. So, did I hear right, McDaddy hit a double?"

She grinned at the slightly callous but also tender way he was seeking confirmation of information he undoubtedly already knew. She also felt this was the beginning of a fishing expedition. McGee had disclosed his unintended and not the least bit serious promise to Tony about naming a child after him while they were in Afghanistan. Abby wasn't so sure he should discount the vow out of hand. She did not sold on the name Anthony, but she also did not mind so much that it wouldn't grow on her, but she suspected McGee had other thoughts. The name Tony was inextricably tied to his partner and while the loved each other like brothers, that also came with family baggage. At this point, McGee was suggesting to her a compromise that they could get a fish and name it Tony… then give the fish to Tony so he wouldn't come over and visit it.

"One boy, one girl," she grinned proudly patting their current residence. "They're due in early November. You probably don't care about any other details."

"What?" he gaped. "I'm all about details. I'm a detail oriented guy. I want to hear everything."

Abby eyed him suspiciously then grinned in a mischievous way. She quickly read his intentions, but that did not mean she would let him off the hook. After all, he opened the door.

"Okay, I'll take you up on that in the future; however, I will not give you a leg up in any betting pool you are starting regarding my babies," she said. "I also will not tell you what we are naming them because we haven't decided."

Tony grinned and puffed out his chest dramatically.

"Well, maybe your McSpouse failed to mention something to you," he began but was cut off by Ziva.

"He did not mean he would actually name his child after you," Ziva assured him, fully in the know on McGee's dilemma. "Making that promise was no different than telling someone to you are going to kill them. You do not mean it. You are saying it in the heat of a moment."

Tony scoffed as he eyed her knowingly.

"Really?" he countered. "So you've never said I'm going to kill you to someone then actually killed them?"

"No," she shook he head. "I find the deed is accomplished more efficiently with no talking."

Abby watched the sparks fly with wide and interested eye. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion. She knew what was going to happen and almost couldn't pull her eyes away; however, at the last moment, she decided a referee was needed.

"Um, we're talking about creating life not ending it, right?" she offered with a forced grin as she waved her hands to cease their imminent bickering. "Happiness zone around the pregnant lady, okay?"

Ziva nodded her apology to the forensics expert and shot a cold look at Tony, who winced from it but recovered nicely.

"Well, I'm just happy the name is under consideration," he said. "It is under consideration, right? I asked McGee and didn't exactly get an answer. He shushed me. Of course, he was in MTAC, and he gets a little testy in there because he thinks it's his kingdom. He's like…"

"A hobo in the shire," Ziva offered tetchily. "Yes, we understand he likes working in MTAC."

"It's hobbit not hobo, and that reference doesn't precisely work, but I think we're on the same page," Tony nodded, a half-grin tugging on his lips at her misspeak. "Anyway, congrats on the babies, Abby. I'm happy for you. Glad you were finally able to… come out with it. Doesn't look like you could suck your gut in much longer anyway."

"Oh, tell me about it," Abby sighed placing her hands on the slight bulge in her belly. "Most of my clothes are a little too snug, and I'm falling out of all of my bras."

Tony blanched in shock at the offering and felt his face grow red. It wasn't that he didn't engage in risqué conversation around the office. He was a charmer and that sometimes meant being a little suggestive, but his discussions with Abby rarely went down those roads even when he would tell her about his dating life. Now that she was married to his partner and cooking the guy's gremlins, Tony felt a little awkward. Worse still, Ziva seemed to notice it.

"I believe Tony is still trying to accept the concept of your impending motherhood," Ziva said. "He is fearful of monogamy, marriage, and family usually. Discussion of biology and procreation is beyond him at this point, I think."

Tony scoffed and felt the sting of her words and her harsh glared. She eyed him sharply as she folded her arms challenging him to disagree. He found himself struggling at first for words.

"I'll admit I was a little taken aback when I realized my little Probie is all grown up and going to be a father," Tony offered. "It happens so fast. It seems like just last week I was making him schlep my gear across the tarmac at Pax River to a crime scene."

"That was last week," Abby reminded him.

Tony chuckled and nodded happily as his eyes took a on a dreamy state.

"I know, good times," he grinned despite Abby's flat stare. "Hey, I just got him back a few months ago. Technically, that makes him a Probie all over again, and seeing as he never stopped being my Probie—if you do the math you'll have to agree—makes him a double Probie. He's like a collector's edition."

"Ha!" Ziva barked mirthlessly as she stabbed him with an accusing glare. "You are overbearing and abuse your position of seniority. Perhaps it would be better if you simply admitted to McGee that you are not fit to carry the gear."

Tony blanched at her taunt. He straightened his posture and offered her his best superior and seasoned agent smile of confidence.

"Not fit?" he scoffed. "What's the matter with you? As the senior field agent, it's my job to oversee and train the junior members of the team."

"Ah, so you are claiming the privilege of age," she nodded. "You are much older than McGee. Is that why you cannot carry your own gear?"

Tony found himself facing two women offering him inquisitive and challenging looks. Abby looked like she was biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Ziva just looked like she wanted to bite someone.

"Age is all in the mind," Tony argued. "I am also in some of the most impressive shape of my life."

"If you believe pear is an impressive, perhaps," Ziva shrugged.

Abby's giggle could no longer be contained. She snorted into her hands as she covered her face to hide her wide grin. Tony offered her a momentarily betrayed look that brought out a softer expression in her eyes.

"Careful with the pear shaped comments," Abby sighed. "I'll be assuming that shape shortly."

"Well, you have a legitimate reason," Ziva replied. "You are with child. Tony is not."

"Oh yeah," Tony challenged as he tilted his hips forward and thrust out his gut. "Didn't you ever see the 1994 movie "Junior"? Arnie, at his comic mediocre best. What do you think? Do I have hips for child bearing?"

Abby turned her attention to her computer as not to egg on the flirtatious dance going so horribly wrong in her lab. The fire in Ziva's eyes and the comical stance Tony maintained was painful to watch and not guffaw. She concentrated on keeping her composure as Ziva rolled her eyes at the agent's antics.

"I have no doubt you and McGee will be good parents, Abby," Ziva offered as she tossed an accusing glare at Tony. "You are a wonderfully caring and intelligent woman, and McGee is also brilliant and has exceptional patience and experience dealing with ill-behaving children."

Tony ignored the jab and snapped his fingers as his expression became eager again while the elevator chimed in the background.

"That brings up my next point," he said. "Kids need godparents. I'm available to do double duty on that for little Anthony and little Antonella so you're making me their godfather, right?"

"Or perhaps the godmother, if he has the hips for it," Ziva muttered.

Tony's retort was lost as Gibbs breezed into the room with McGee trailing in his wake.

"DiNozzo, why aren't you with Bishop talking to the LA office?" he asked brusquely. "They've been looking for you for 10 minutes."

Tony opened his mouth to explain but seeing the firm stare just turned on his heel and hurried out of the room as he mouthed the word "godfather" to McGee as he pointed at himself then sprinted out of the room.

"Ziver," Gibbs addressed the visitor. "You here to see me?"

She looked quickly at Abby, knowing she could not divulge anything to her, and smiled blandly at Gibbs.

"We will talk upstairs," she nodded then offered Abby a brief hug and a congratulatory hug with a kiss on the cheek to McGee prior to departing.

Abby then smiled widely at Gibbs, shifting her eyes between him and her husband.

"Your guys come up with anything on the ballistics yet for bullets Ducky found in the master chief in the fire at Pax River?" Gibbs asked in reference the previous week's case that turned from homicide by arson when the medical examiner found two slugs in the body during autopsy.

Abby looked a bit crestfallen that his inquiry was work-based and a little miffed that McGee showed no reaction at all other than an eagerness to hear the results as well. Abby scrunched her brow but turned to her computer to search for any findings.

"Right you are, my silver surfer," she said then paused and looked from Gibbs to McGee, both who looked back puzzled.

"What?" Gibbs asked.

"Should I stop doing that now?" she wondered.

"Stop doing what?" Gibbs wondered.

"Giving you names that could be read as being more affectionate than respectful," she wondered.

Gibbs looked from Abby to McGee. His agent looked on blankly then shrugged.

"Does it bother you?" Gibbs asked him.

McGee shook his head.

"I've never really listened when she says that stuff, Boss," he replied.

As Abby gaped at his pronouncement, he stepped slightly behind Gibbs realizing he had essentially admitted to ignoring her when she spoke. Gibbs gave him a double take then shook his head. His expression clearly questioned McGee's intelligence but that he plowed onward.

"Well, that makes two of us," he muttered then pointed at the screen in front of her. "Ballistics?"

"I can give you firing pin patterns only," she announced as she pulled up the data on the screen. "These were fired from the same Desert Eagle. There thousands in circulation; the firing pin pattern here is consistent with the 1998 revamp on the 8602 series. The one that fired these slugs is not in the tri-state police databases or in the Federal system so this gun appears to be a virgin when it comes to crime—which makes one of us in the lab."

She turned and looked expectantly at Gibbs who still appeared clueless. McGee sported the same expression until he caught the slightest glint in her eye. He nodded.

"Uh, Boss, Abby has some news," he began. "You weren't here for our announcement this morning, so…"

"So, guess what," she beamed eagerly.

"You're going to have a baby?" Gibbs remarked as she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly.

"Two," she squealed. "Are you surprised?"

"Not really," Gibbs shook his head. "Of course, that's only because McGee told me the news a couple months ago. Congratulations."

He offered her peck on the cheek as Abby's eyes snapped sharply at McGee. She put her hands on her hips and her lips twisted sourly. McGee looked desperately at Gibbs.

"That's to get you off the hook for saying you don't listen when she speaks," Gibbs offered with a nod to his agent.

"Thanks," McGee muttered as he winced under Abby's frustrated expression.

Gibbs left them alone as he headed out of the room grinning proudly. As he reached the elevator, he heard Abby speak his agent's name in a way that signaled her jaw was clenched in a scolding. Gibbs sighed contentedly as he listened to his agent pleading and backpedaling on his actions.

"Get used to it, Tim," Gibbs said to himself as flashes of Shannon scolding him for no good reason while she was carrying Kelly came to mind. He exhaled sadly as he hit the button to take him one more level down.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Autopsy Suite_**

Ducky was closing the drawer on their burned guest. He had just finalized the paperwork to release the remains to a local mortuary at the request of the family. The autopsy showed the master chief was already dead when dragged into the storage garage that was set ablaze.

Gibbs entered through the automatic doors with an expression of expectation on his face.

"Did you find out which of the family member wanted a rush on burying the body, Duck?" he asked.

"Ah, Jethro," the medical examiner said. "I did indeed. It was his sister. Nothing sinister in her requests. It seems she has something of a homegrown religion. She believes in returning bodies to the earth as soon as practicable. However, as she is the one charged with determining the disposition of the remains, she also let me know that she will delay her request if it helps us to determine who did the deed that took the poor man's life. She only asked for a speedy return of the body because the burial type she is requesting does not use preservation techniques and thus, in normal circumstances, the services for that must take place swiftly for the comfort of all who attend. Of course, dramatic decomposition is not a worry in this case, given the condition of the master chief due to the nearly complete charring of his body. Therefore, in my opinion, it does not appear that the sister wishes to do anything but put her brother to rest."

Gibbs nodded. It was a longshot. Usually those who wanted a swift burial and to rush an autopsy had something to hide. He hoped Tony and Bishop were having better luck in their part of the investigation that was receiving the help of agents in LA, the place the master chief recently departed following an extended period of leave due to family issues of the divorce kind.

"Thanks anyway," Gibbs noted.

"Jethro," he called as the agent started to leave. "Did you happen to see Abigail or Timothy?"

"I just left both of them in the lab," he said. "Why?"

"Well, professional and personal reasons," Ducky said. "Abigail has news for you that is as delightful as it is unsurprising. As for Timothy, I wanted to ask him a few questions about his missing friend. I was looking at the file you gave me on Mr. Scott once again and something does not add up for me in his early school transcripts. Your missing SEAL was barely passing, having been held back twice, until he was nearly 11 when suddenly his test scores rose dramatically despite the persistent shuffling he did between his parents' duty stations. It was a remarkable feat all things considered—it certainly demonstrated a strength of will that no doubt served him well during his SEAL training. However, there was another drastic drop in his academics during his sophomore year. Oddly, his grades picked up again when his mother was transferred to Bethesda."

Gibbs shrugged. Kids and grades from 20 years earlier hardly seemed relevant to a missing naval officer in the present.

"I think the connection is Timothy," Ducky said. "It leads me to believe that you are right to think that Lieutenant Scott is no danger—none intentional anyway—to your agent."

"What's McGee's safety got to do with this guy's grades?" Gibbs asked.

"Everything," Ducky said. "Lieutenant Scott's self-stated lifelong desire was to be a SEAL, like his father. However, he struggled in school—possibly from an undiagnosed learning disability—until a miraculous turnaround occurs just prior to entering junior high. His grades then plummet again without apparent reason as he enters the second half of his high school years."

"Not following you, Duck," Gibbs said as the doctor pulled another file from the desk and handed it to Gibbs.

"I took the liberty of pulling Timothy's records as well," he said. "I compared the timelines. Our wayward Lieutenant's academic prowess started to rise around age 10."

"Fifth grade," Gibbs noted.

"Third for him," Ducky corrected. "He was held back in successive grades prior to that so he was two years older than his schoolmates. During his 10th year, when Timothy was eight and in third grade, the McGee family moved from Norfolk to Alameda just after Sarah was born. That is the year Timothy became a classmate of Mr. Scott."

Gibbs shrugged. One smart kid, McGee, and one struggling kid, Scott. It hardly seemed important now.

"It's the timeline," Ducky insisted. "We have a much more complete history for Timothy. Not surprisingly his academic record is impeccable. One of his teachers noted that he was tutoring an older student of his own accord. I believe that student was Carter Scott. His friend wanted to be a SEAL and knew failing grades would not get him there. As you know, our Timothy will do everything in his considerable skill range to assist a friend in need."

Gibbs nodded. It made sense. It still didn't seem relevant though.

"If he's such a good teacher, what happens here after Scott's sophomore year?" he asked. "McGee decided to take the training wheels off and Scott wiped out?"

"No," Ducky shook his head as he tapped the file in Gibbs' hands. "Timothy left him entirely."

Gibbs scrunched his brow and looked at the pages more carefully. He had reviewed McGee's records 13 years earlier after first encountering him on a murder case out of Norfolk. He did not pay much attention to the probationary agent's early academic years. He noted first his degrees and who his father was, but he paid more attention to his training evals from the instructors at FLETC: smart, green, teachable.

He looked furthering into the record this time and saw what Ducky meant.

"He skipped sixth and seventh grade," Gibbs nodded.

"Yes, Timothy graduated high school before he turned 16," Ducky revealed. "At that time, the family was transferred back to Norfolk when his father was promoted from Vice Admiral to full Admiral. That was the same time Timothy entered Johns Hopkins as a freshman who was not yet old enough to drive a car. In doing so, he left behind his friend in California. A further look into Mr. Scott's records show a drop in his grades and his attendance for several months following the McGee family's departure. Then Mr. Scott's mother was transferred to Bethesda. Once on the same coast again, just 40 minutes away from where Timothy was at college in Baltimore, our lieutenant's grades rise again. and he graduates with honors the following year and joins the Navy."

Gibbs nodded. A friendship of merit was noteworthy but not as telling to him as it seemed to be to Ducky. He looked to the psychological profiler for more detail.

"Those grades, navigating high school courses, was the only difficult obstacle for Carter Scott to attain his dream of following in his father's footsteps," Ducky replied. "I believe Timothy made that success possible. Mr. Scott's military record is exemplary and shows marked loyalty to his fellow Navy brethren, a kind of devotion one is more apt to see in a Marine. That loyalty was forged initially in a childhood friendship that I do not believe ever waned. Timothy is his emergency contact should anything befall Lieutenant Scott. Your findings show he went AWOL after hearing of Timothy's injury, yet the hospital and Timothy's family have no knowledge of the Lieutenant making any inquiries into his condition. I think he left of his own accord due to some inner need to look out for his friend, perhaps even to protect him. Jethro, this is total conjecture on my part, but if I was laying a bet on this, I will put my money on Carter Scott not being very far away at all. I know there are those who have suggested he might be a danger to Timothy, but I suspect something else entirely."

Gibbs offered him a puzzled look.

"Something about Timothy's attack broke something in our missing SEAL," he said with sympathy. "From Timothy's own account, his friend saved his life when they were children. I suspect that is a duty he never relinquished. Hearing of his friends grave injury may have triggered some repressed post traumatic issues for it seems apparent to me that it is Timothy's injury that cause his friend's disappearance. Lt. Scott is a smart man, Jethro, and a dangerous one—not to Timothy but to anyone he thinks is a threat to his friend. That makes him unpredictable, like a hurt animal. He will lash out and cause harm where he thinks it necessary."

That was exceptionally bad news in Gibbs's book. If the SEAL knew anything about Reeves and McGee's past, seeing them together made Scott a suspect in her murder. The only thing making Gibbs doubt that theory was the proximity of McGee to Reeves when the bullet was fired. Then again, if Scott was as good as the reports said, that one foot distance between them was as good as a mile in the hands of someone with that skill. Gibbs knew that from personal experience.

"Anything to suggest Scott wouldn't be able to tell the difference between real danger and just perceived danger?" he asked.

Ducky sighed in a heavy and worried fashion.

"In most circumstances with a clear mind and sufficient contextual knowledge, he would be able to without difficulty," Ducky said . "However, I fear his state of mind is not optimum. If I am right, his reaction to Timothy's injury was excessive and out of proportion. Granted, Timothy's condition was life-threatening, but going underground and hiding for a year speaks to a mental pathology in our Lieutenant that has parted from reality and is in need of intensive counseling."

Gibbs sighed. Just what he needed. A crazy sniper on the loose stalking McGee for his own protection, but without a working gauge for what constituted a threat. Anyone around McGee could become a target.

"How bad?" he asked. "If I give him a headslap, is my head in the crosshairs?"

"Unfortunately, it is possible," Ducky said warily. "In a worse-case scenario, anyone could be seen as a threat, even Abigail."

"Abby?" Gibbs questioned. "She'd never hurt McGee. She might lecture him, but that's a kind of pain he seems to enjoy."

Ducky grinned at the assessment, finding it both telling and accurate, but also the very crux of the warning he was giving.

"Even gesticulating in a visually aggressive manner could be misconstrued from a considerable distance," he cautioned. "Not to put too fine a point on this, but her current condition lends itself to additionally amplified emotional outbursts. I know Timothy has developed an increased desire to protect her from all things from a paper cut to the world ending, which is understandable all things considered, but it seems to me in an overabundance of caution that the safest place for her and their unborn children is as far from Timothy as possible."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Elevator_**

Gibbs stood in the stationary car with the lights dimmed as Ziva folded her arms waiting for the purpose of their private meeting. When she arrived that day, she meant only to tell him that she was permitted to pass along information she discovered in the course of her work that pertained to Gibbs' investigation into his shadowy drug ring and any wisps of information that might point to the location of a missing SEAL. She had recently been assigned a duty that other officers at the CIA considered beneath them and an insult: liaison with NCIS and the FBI for joint operations.

Whether she was chosen for her past experience or the CIA's lack of use for her other talents, she did not know. However, this was one tasking that she looked forward to greatly, even if it meant the occasionally uncomfortable interaction with Tony.

"This level of secrecy was not necessary," she began. "I was merely here to tell you what I told Director Vance when I arrived earlier. I am…"

"I need your help," Gibbs said cutting off her explanation.

"I have offered to keep my eyes and ears open for any information I can pass along," Ziva nodded. "I have the added bonus of being permitted to do that officially as well; although much of what I tell you will be for a limited number of ears to hear."

"No," Gibbs said. "I need your help. Ziva, I need to find Carter Scott. Now."

"I believe McGee is looking as is an entire other team of NCIS agents out of Norfolk," she said as her brow furrowed with concern.

"Not good enough," he said then imparted Ducky's blood chilling assessment.

Her face changed instantly from the reasonably content if partially bored CIA control officer into what Gibbs needed. She morphed immediately into the Mossad operative who understood the necessity of success and the unacceptability of failure.

"I don't care what you need to do to find him, but you find him," he ordered.

"I will not fail you," she vowed and flipped the switch to start the elevator again.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Conference Room_**

After a discussion with Vance regarding Ducky's theory, it was decided to unofficially put McGee on desk duty again. This was easily done as Vance had a task perfectly suited for the skills of the MIT graduate. The next bundle of information from the pirated laptop had been pried free and needed analysis. McGee bristled initially at the assignment but as it as coming from the director himself he swallowed it with better grace.

The rest of the team took the change in stride and made no remarks about it as McGee remained in the squad room working and assisting them as much as time allowed. Gibbs merely offered the group a warning that there was unspecified intel that the missing SEAL might be targeting NCIS agents or anyone acting aggressively around those involved in the investigation into the drug ring. McGee objected to the characterization of his friend as dangerous, but said nothing more after his disagreement was stated.

Gibbs went home each night and kept a concerned eye on the house behind his as the couple who called it home went about their daily lives focused more on the future than on a threat neither fully knew.

As June rolled through the Capitol region, Vance entered the conference room to find Gibbs staring out the windows and Ziva sitting stiffly in a chair beside the long table. He felt a moment of déjà vu as he looked at them.

"Officer David, good to see you again," Vance said. "I take it you've got some information for me. For the sake of argument, let's pretend you're delivering the intel to me first like your superiors agreed when we arranged for you to be our liaison."

Ziva shot a quick look at Gibbs' back then nodded.

"In my position as a control officer for various overseas assets, I have come into possession of a tip," she said. "An operative in the Caribbean involved with smuggling of arms reported last night that a man claiming to be Lt. Commander Carter Scott made contact with him. He was looking to obtain a variety of incendiary devices and a high powered rifle that is still in the development stages but that has several test models in the field."

Vance turned swiftly to look at Gibbs, who remained staring out at the port. The late afternoon sky was hazy and threatening to spawn pop up thunderstorms.

"You consider this a credible report?" Vance inquired.

"Very," she nodded. "My area of focus for the last six months has been Central and South America—the smuggling of drugs, arms and people. I trust the operative who provided me this information. His offerings nearly always bear fruit."

Vance inhaled deeply. A missing SEAL seeking illegal weapons. Hardly a stretch for the imagination; concerning considering Ducky's profile. The question was: Why did he want them specifically? He asked Ziva that precise question but did not get as robust an answer.

"We do not know," she replied. "I was given permission to share this tip with you in the hopes that you might find it useful. Should you locate your missing SEAL, perhaps you will have information that you can provide us should you deem it worthy."

"Such as?" Vance asked.

"How would Lt. Commander Scott know about this prototype weapon?" she said with a dire expression. "We are looking into the possibility that a US defense contractor holding the plans for several new weapons may be selling those plans. Your missing SEAL's knowledge is of great interest to us."

Vance raised his eyebrows. Their relationship with the CIA had never been good. Granted, most of that stemmed from the Spook Central being paranoid and unhelpful as a general rule. It wasn't helped any by the aggressive (some might even say felonious) approach by a previous NCIS director settling a family score. The CIA was wise to send the former NCIS agent as their new liaison. Her loyalties would lie with whomever she gave her oath, but he trusted in the former agent's integrity not to shaft NCIS the way her predecessors, like Trent Kort, had.

"I thank you Officer David," Vance said. "We'll take that under advisement. Now, does someone want to tell me why this discussion had to take place in person? If the CIA has asked you to work with us in the hopes of sharing information later, you could have just called."

Gibbs took that moment to turn around and join the discussion.

"You can't always know who's listening in on your calls," he said then nodded to Ziva.

"I have other information, unofficial," she offered. "The CIA officially has no interest in this information but it would be looked upon critically if I conveyed it in the same discussion as a call regarding Lt. Commander Scott. It might make it seem to some that there was additional information that my agency should pay closer attention to. I assure you there is not, but the CIA is like Mossad. They are…"

"Paranoid," Gibbs said.

Ziva inclined her head slightly without full on agreeing.

"I understand you have been searching for Peter Colson," she said and saw Vance's expression go blank.

Gibbs chuckled.

"Colson is the nephew of Mark Johnson, a retired DEA agent and former Congressman who was key to the investigations and prosecutions of a few drug ring cases in California in the late 1980s and early '90s," Gibbs revealed. "Colson's father died when he was two. His mother remarried a DC cop, who died a few years ago. The stepfather is the registered owner of a Glock that was used in the attack in Helmand Provide at Foxtrot Camp last year-the one that fired the shot at McGee. At the time of the attack, Colson was part of the security forces employed by Simocorp at the camp ."

"He moved around, unofficially of course, after Simocorp lost their contract following the discovery of their computer security deficiencies with their background check software," Ziva continued. "He was hired by Apollo Corporation."

Vance leaned forward with interest. Apollo was one of the leading private military contractors at the US bases in Afghanistan.

"He was assigned most recently to a SEAL training encampment in Deshu," Ziva offered.

Vance's mouth went dry as his eyes grew larger and wider. At the base where the initial breach was discovered, access to one of the weapons used in the attack and physically present at the location of the attack? It was unbelievable.

"Why am I just learning about this connection now?" he demanded.

"No one knew," Gibbs said. "The gun was reported missing after the stepfather died—years before any of this happened. Stepson was never a suspect. He wasn't on our radar at all. We had the shooters. No reason to think anyone else was involved until recently. He didn't pull the trigger that day. He's just the one who armed the shooters. Or at least one of them. He's our link. He's the one who told John Doe number 2 to target McGee. If we find out who gave Colson that order, then we've got whoever calls the shots in the drug ring."

Vance clenched his jaw as he processed the information. It was right there in front of them the whole time. One name, one thread, and the right tug would cinch the whole mess together.

"So where is Colson now?" he asked.

"San Juan, Puerto Rico, we believe," Ziva answered.

"Same place as Scott?" Vance seethed. "That a coincidence?"

"Don't believe in them as a rule," Gibbs noted.

"However," Ziva added, "it is possible. I have other information that suggests Lt. Scott is in the Norfolk area. One lead is not more credible than the other. I will be following up on the Norfolk information and will report to you what I find."

"Since when does the CIA operate domestically?" Vance asked.

"It does not," she answered cryptically then nodded succinctly at Gibbs.

She departed not long afterward. Vance's nostrils were flaring and his shoulders were hunched as though he was ready to tackle someone. He bunched his fists as Gibbs stood beside the table with a relaxed posture waiting for the next round of the discussion.

"What's your plan?" Vance asked eventually.

"If Scott is in Puerto Rico, we go there and we grab him," he said.

"If you can grab him," Vance corrected. "The guy's slipped past every snare we've set for him and Parsons' set for him so far. Puerto Rico isn't that big of an island, and he knows that. He gets past you and manages to leave the jurisdiction of U.S. and we've got some international hurdles to cross."

Gibbs nodded and grinned.

"That's why you have lunch with your friends at the State Department every other Wednesday, isn' it?" he remarked.

"One of many," Vance replied. "I'm guessing you're taking DiNozzo."

"And McGee," Gibbs nodded.

"McGee?" Vance shook his head. "Why? I thought we were trying to put distance between those two."

"His friend, his search," Gibbs replied. "McGee knows Scott better than anyone else looking for him. It's his work that actually found the lead that brought Ziva this information."

Vance sighed and continued to shake his head.

"I'm not sold on this," he said. "I've got a special counsel for OIG and our profiler telling us that McGee is being targeted by this man in some way. I know we agree that's Parson's information is probably a willful misdirection, but Ducky's is another story. Until I know for certain if either of them is right, I can't send McGee into the field to look for the man."

Gibbs scoffed. Parsons was playing them. He was certain of it. Granted, the man probably had good reasons but they were getting in Gibbs's way. Gibbs agreed with Ducky that McGee was not in danger from Carter Scott, not directly. The man might be unhinged, but everything Gibbs knew (and everything his gut told him) about the man told him he was not targeting his friend. What he was doing and where he was going was a mystery, but the suggestion that Colson and Scott might be in the same place did not make him think the danger for McGee was elevated. In fact, moving McGee closer to where Scott might be had the added advantage of possibly flushing the man out.

"So if anyone asks, McGee's not looking for Scott," Gibbs shrugged. "We've got another person of interest that appears to be in the same location. San Juan is a big city, Director. A lot of people there. A lot of different reasons to be there."

Vance snorted. He often thought of his career with NCIS is terms of what the agents and cases taught him. He folded his hands and regarded his hardest-headed agent and realized for the first time that he might have taught Gibbs a thing or two—and that might not be a good thing.

"You know, there's a reason whenever I'm away and need to appoint a point of contact that I still send everyone to Jerome Craig," Vance noted as the thought of his deputy director who served as more of a liaison with other agencies than a daily administrator. "Your search for the wayward Mr. Scott could take you out of Puerto Rico. McGee's grounded from all international travel—Parsons wasn't lying when he said he flagged his passport."

Gibbs nodded. Puerto Rico was certainly not Scott's final destination. It was a layover, a planned stop, most likely. The trick was to get to him before he get his plans in order and fell into another deep dark hole where they could not find him again. Time was an issue.

"He doesn't need a passport to go to Puerto Rico," Gibbs said. "He can fly with his credentials. Look, the clock is ticking. The intel is almost 24 hours old. I don't know how much longer it'll be fresh enough to use."

Vance chewed the inside of his cheek. He wanted a toothpick, badly, but his daughter had discovered his stash and done a hauntingly good impersonation of her late mother when she lectured him while tossing them out.

"If you need to chase him beyond Puerto Rico, McGee comes home," Vance relented.

Gibbs nodded and started toward the door.

"You already booked flights, didn't you?" he guessed.

"Always anticipate your next move," Gibbs said without precisely admitting it. "We're wheels up in three hours. DiNozzo and McGee left to pack their bags 20 minutes ago."

Vance huffed then shook his head in defeat as Gibbs left the room. He wasn't sure what was more frustrating, being reminded that he never fully had control of Gibbs or this case that always seemed to turn into smoke the moment they felt they had their hands around something solid.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come.


	46. Chapter 46

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Tony scoffed loudly in frustration as he looked at his watch for the 10th time in two minutes.

"Where is he?" he asked Bishop.

She was using the GPS in McGee's phone to try and track his location. Tony had grown impatient the moment he returned to the office from packing his travel bag. That they did not need to leave for the airport for another 15 minutes did not seem to matter to him. The root of his anxiousness was unknown to her. Puerto Rico sounded like a good assignment as far as she was concerned.

"You're less agitated when you go to Afghanistan," Bishop remarked. "Puerto Rico is nice. Have you ever been?"

"Once," Tony said flatly. "Has he left his house yet?"

Bishop shrugged. For whatever reason, the application could not find McGee's phone. It was possible he had it off, but she thought that unlikely. He was not one to ever unplug from technology voluntarily. However, if he was ensuring that he and Abby were not interrupted as he said goodbye to her that was another matter.

"What's bothering you?" she asked.

"Traveling with McGee, that's what," he grumbled.

"You were just with him in Afghanistan a couple months ago," Bishop noted.

"Exactly," Tony growled. "Haven't I been through enough this year?"

Bishop shook her head and reminded Tony that he was no treat to travel with as well with his constant movie discussions and nonstop chatter.

"Maybe," he relented. "But at least I don't wheeze at the first sign of tropical pollen, or get woozy at the first sign of turbulence. I won't develop a nervous tick if my cell phone doesn't have five bars or if my network isn't 4G capable. I won't curl up and suck my thumb at night because…"

"Okay, McGee doesn't suck his thumb," Bishop cut off the rant. "Look, he's no different than everyone else."

"Really?" Tony shook his head. "You understand that this will be the first time he is away from home since Abby got pregnant. They're practically attached at the hip most days. He walks her to her lab each morning. He has lunch with her most days. He goes home to her every night. He'll go through withdrawal without her."

It hardly sounded like an awful circumstance for anyone other than McGee, in Bishop's opinion. McGee was always attentive to his wife. That attention was merely heightened now that she was pregnant. It did not seem odd Bishop in the least as she explained it to Tony.

"Why does it bother you so much?" she asked. "Are you jealous of him?"

Tony scoffed then forced a dry laugh.

"Me?" he guffawed. "Jealous of McGee? Not scientifically possible."

"I don't know," Bishop shrugged. "He's happy and you're… not. Some men would envy his circumstances."

"A specky physique, not an ounce of coolness in his personality, completely devoid of anything that would attract women," Tony argued.

"He attracted Abby," Bishop countered. "There are plenty of women who are attracted to him. On top of that, he does have an enviable life. He's in love and he's going to be a father."

Tony scoffed. The only women who were attracted to that were sad women with bad eyesight or desperately lonely women who were feeling their biological clocks tick loudly.

"Well, that's probably true," he proclaimed. "Women can be irrational. Why else would they spend a moment even thinking about a guy like McGeek?"

Bishop glared at him and wondered if he ever had the audacity to say such things to the two previous women who sat at her desk. One could never answer her, but she did know of another who could.

"I am a hyper rational person, and I think he has a lot to offer," Bishop said feeling slighted. "A part me me envies Abby a little bit."

Tony cocked his head to the side as he wandered closer to her desk. His face was a mixture of his playground taunting expression and borderline shock.

"Isn't that interesting," he remarked. "I'm sensing some jealousy. Is it that your biological clock I hear ticking, or do you have some sad and twisted infatuation with our McPartner?"

Bishop scoffed and shook her head. This issue was Tony's alone. His efforts to deflect were not going to work. She looked back at him with a superior grin.

"I don't harbor feelings for Tim, and I don't have Mommy urges clouding my judgment," she assured him. "What about you?"

"My judgment is not clouded," he assured her.

"You sure?" Bishop asked. "Sounds a little cloudy from where I am sitting. You've never wanted a family of your own? Fatherhood holds no interest for you?"

Tony stepped back, surprised by the question. There was always the nebulous someday timetable. Of course, finding someone to fulfill the role of mother to a mini-me was the problem. Sure, there had been one two instances in his life when he chanced to almost think on those terms, but nothing ever came of it. One was a crash and burn from the start as he was undercover. The other was… Well, it never really started at all. She was from a culture of secrecy as well and her loyalty was to her work. That was a shield she carried to prevent anyone from getting close and possibly hurting her.

He was saved from commenting on that when the elevator opened and McGee stepped out carrying his bag. Bishop spotted him then looked on her GPS screen to see it registering his presence at their location.

"You had your phone turned off?" she remarked.

"No," he shook his head. "I left it in my car while I was packing. Did you need something?"

"No," Bishop shook her head then looked with confusion at her screen. "Your GPS wasn't working. Now it seems fine."

"I think there's something wrong with the phone," he said looking at it with disappointment. "Anytime I'm in my car it doesn't get a signal lately."

Tony then groaned loudly as he grabbed his bag then marched McGee, physically directing him, back to the elevator.

"That's a real sad story, Tim," Tony said grumpily. "That can be your first complaint of the trip. Thanks, Ellie. I'll be sure to pay you back for this in triplicate."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _La Vida_** ** _Diversión_**

 ** _San Juan, PR_**

Tony bobbed his head to the beat of the Latin music in the bar. For a place that's name translated roughly into The Fun Life, it was relatively tame by Puerto Rico standards. However, the drinks were strong and cheap; the music was loud without blaring, and the crowd was moderate with an adequate mixture of tourists and locals. The cigars on sale behind the counter were undoubtedly Cuban. Tony paid the Federal violation no mind as he sipped on his Mojito. Sweat beaded on his glass much as it did his forehead as he sat alone at the bar watching the people around him.

It was evening on their fourth night in the city. The trip was a bust so he was drowning his sorrows as the night wore on. It was past 10 but before midnight, if his slightly blurred vision and bar tab were solid indicators. He sighed disappointedly. There was no sign of Colson or Scott, although McGee felt certain there was a trail for Colson he could pick up if left alone with his laptop for an hour or two at the hotel. Gibbs obliged and cut Tony free for the night.

He wandered the old part of the city not far from their lodgings and happened upon the cantina with the lovely ladies in the front propositioning for reasonable prices. He grinned at the thought of Gibbs happening by. He wondered if they would up their price based on his stern expression or drop them just to try and bring a little smile to the stony face.

"This is what you're doing with your night off while ignoring my calls?" McGee's voice pierced his solitude.

Tony turned his head to see his partner leaning on the bar beside him with a perturbed expression. Like Tony, he was in more casual attire than worn when working and appeared both tired from their fruitless days, slightly burned from the intense daily rays, and uncomfortable in the intense heat. Tony snorted his lack of surprise to see the pale shade of McGee's arms. The skin of his scrawny forearms looked nearly translucent in the bar's weak lights.

"What?" Tony shook his head.

"I've been trying to call you," McGee said above the music. "Can we step outside? I can't hear myself think in here much less tell you anything."

Tony grunted and took the last swallow of his drink before waving farewell to Rogelio, his bartender and compadre for the last couple hours. The two agents stepped out into the muggy night to the crowded sidewalk where the next wave of bar patrons was flooding toward the entrance. It was a gaggle of giggling and stumbling women dressed in something that looked like Mardi Gras attire, leading Tony to believe it was a bachelorette party bar hopping for the evening. He craned his neck to follow them but was brought back to reality when McGee nudged him in the ribs with his elbow.

"You don't have time or the interest in that right now," McGee said.

"I beg to differ," Tony scoffed. "See, that was fun. I like fun. In fact, that whole place is for fun. It's even in the name."

"You're not looking for fun," McGee said. "You're drowning your sorrows."

"What makes you think that?" Tony questioned.

"We're in Puerto Rico and ever since you found out we'd be going here you've been thinking of just one thing," McGee replied. "When you think about that, or rather her, you get sullen and you don't want to have fun."

Tony scoffed. World class computer nerd he might be, but his partner had no idea whatsoever what he was talking about; if he was going to start in on whether or not Tony should call Ziva when they were back in DC, well, Tony told himself, McMatchMaker had something else coming.

"You're so wrong that you're…," he began.

"I'm not wrong," McGee interrupted tersely. "You've still wearing your Kate face."

Tony stopped in mid-stride and grasped McGee's arm to halt his progress as well. He looked hard at McGee and saw only a sad and sincere expression.

"My what?" he asked.

"You've only been to Puerto Rico once before," McGee explained. "You always wanted to go and Boss let you when you were on a case with him and Kate involving a sailor who committed suicide a few miles offshore. When you were at the base here, you bought Kate a gift."

McGee grinned in spite of his own sorrow at recalling their lost teammate. She had told him, with great offense in her voice but a lot less in her eyes, all about the two piece bathing suit (a set of bottoms and a hat) that Tony purchased for her during his time on the island. Tony had harassed her about wearing it numerous times in front of McGee, hoping to lure the unsuspecting younger agent into foolishly asking her about the bathing suit in the hopes of getting him in trouble. Fortunately, McGee was wise enough that one time to hold his tongue on that until after Kate explained it in private one afternoon when Tony was late returning from lunch.

"How do you know about that?" Tony asked stunned by the accuracy.

"Kate told me," McGee replied, thinking the answer had to have been obvious.

"No," Tony shook his head. "Not about the gift. How did you know I was thinking about her?"

"Like I said, you're wearing your Kate face," McGee shrugged. "It's the same look you always get when you think about her. I know you don't do that much so I notice it every time. It makes sense you would think of her when you were here. You worked that case together. Puerto Rico reminds you of her."

Tony sighed. He did not give McGee enough credit sometimes. His greatest strengths might always be in the technology realm, but he had come lightyears in his people reading skills. Then again, Tony reasoned, this was one of those times when McGee's intrinsically sensitive nature rather than his experience was the leading factor. He understood quiet and misery and what it meant when people became that way.

"So what's your Kate face?" Tony demanded, wondering how he missed this obvious tell of his. If he (master poker face that he was) had one, then surely McGee did as well.

"I don't have one," McGee shook his head. Tony scoffed his disagreement. "I don't make myself forget her every day the way you do. I think about Kate every single day when I walk into the office and every night as I leave."

Tony's brow furrowed then nodded his understanding as he realized the answer was obvious.

It was the desk. Kate's desk.

McGee passed it each day coming and going from the office. McGee was the one who snapped at Ziva when she first arrived and set up camp there. The mild mannered and friendly member of the team was one who took instant offense to her squatting there, and let the new Mossad liaison officer know who the desk belonged to. McGee accepted the desk as Ziva's eventually and accepted her as well, but his recent admission was astounding and revelatory.

"Why did you never tell me that before now?" Tony asked.

McGee shrugged. He missed Kate, not the way Tony did, but he was at least spared the horrific memory of being beside her when Ari's fatal shot ended her life. He felt a cold shudder wash through him as a hazy memory zinged through his mind. Whether it was of the gunshots fired at him the day Kate died or the day he was hit in Afghanistan, he did not know nor did he think it was important to learn.

"Didn't see a reason," he offered. "You deal with it your way. I deal with it mine."

Tony nodded and started down the street again, some of his sullenness lifted for reasons he didn't fully understand. He didn't want to think about a caring and sharing moment being the cause. Sure, his men's support group did mention to him that perhaps he might consider confiding in his partner about these kinds of things, but Tony felt it was his job to be the leader. McGee was the junior agent, his probie, his… little brother. He cast a sideways glance at him as he recalled his reaction to hearing McGee was standing on the threshold of death's door the previous year.

So many friends and colleagues lost and yet there was this guy still here with him, Tony mused. The greenest agent he ever met. The epitome of the term probie. The introverted and easily intimidated Boy Scout who had a laughable crush on a Goth chick so opposite of his personality it was practically a lame joke.

They had been through terrorist attempts in the homeland; held hostage in a foreign land; and been trapped in the NCIS building when it was bombed. They'd resigned in protest and been brought back when the agency was in need; they'd gone through countless cases, confusions, and cups of coffee. They'd fought, feuded, and fraternized afterhours. They'd weathered rubber band and spitball fights (well, most of those were just Tony's) together. They had eaten more meals at their desks (and missed twice as many) while facing more dire deadlines than they could tally; they had lost more hours of sleep than either could count; and traveled more miles than could be calculated—all of it together. Some cases were a win; a few were disastrous losses; a few more were maddening ties. Now, a dozen years later they were in Puerto Rico chasing a ghost (or two) like it was just another day at the office.

Because for them, it was.

"Why were you calling me?" Tony asked, fishing his phone from his pocket to see the missed calls.

"Looks like you may be going to Haiti," McGee said as they continued down the darkened street toward their hotel. "Gibbs was on the phone with Vance and sent me to get you."

Tony groaned. Puerto Rico he liked generally. Sure, there was the ghost of his dead partner to contend with when his mind settled enough to let him think about anything other than the case. Haiti, however, was a third world hellhole. It was not overtly dangerous like Afghanistan or Iraq, but it wasn't a Caribbean vacation either. Teeming with all sorts of unsavory people and flavors, if the corruption didn't get you the diseases would.

"I take it from your phrasing that little Timmy isn't allowed to go play in Voodoo Land?" Tony noted.

"Gibbs just said you," McGee shrugged feeling left out yet again as Gibbs chose Tony for the assignment. "It's not set yet. Vance needs to work with State to get you permission to go there officially. While that gets worked out, we're staying here. Boss said as long as he's here, I'm to keep looking for Carter."

Tony offered him an odd look that had a lot less to do with his Mojito intake than most would believe.

"You're not here to look for Carter Scott," Tony shook his head as he stopped in the middle of the street they were crossing. "You're looking for Colson. Wait. Who is in Haiti, and why am I going there?"

Grabbing his arm to keep him going, McGee pulled Tony toward the front of their hotel. The lights in the lobby were bright and inviting. The stairs to the second floor (the elevator was broken) were just to the left of the check in desk. McGee kept Tony moving in that general direction.

"You're going after Colson," McGee said. "I think I've got a line on him. Boss wants me to stay behind as long as possible to see what I can find. I'm also running some searches and following up on a few leads about Carter, but between you and me, I don't think he's here. I'm not even sure he ever was here."

The climbed the stairs in unison then trekked to the far end of the hall where their adjacent rooms were located.

"You think this was a wild goose chase?" Tony asked. "McGee, you said you think Colson was here and took off for Haiti recently. What makes you think your buddy wasn't here?"

"The evidence," McGee replied. "Or the lack of it. I don't know why someone sent us here after Carter, but it's a good thing they did. It helped us get a line on Colson."

The door across the hall opened to reveal Gibbs staring at them with a less than pleased expression. He kept his voice low and disappointed.

"Between the two of you, I expect one to understand the concept of classified," he said and saved his coldest expression for McGee who blanched in shame and lowered his eyes.

"Port-au-Prince or bust, Boss?" Tony asked, sensing Gibbs' frustration was more political than with his agent's decibels in an empty hotel hallway.

"We'll have official travel orders by morning," Gibbs said tersely as he closed his door. "Get some sleep, both of you."

Tony sighed and put his hand consolingly on McGee's shoulder.

"Sorry, Timmy," he shook his head. "No pillow fights or ghost stories tonight. Dad said its bedtime."

"I should have left you in the bar," McGee grumbled as he headed into his room.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Bishop surveyed the room, looking at the three empty desks around her and sighed. McGee had told her there would be times when she was left out, that it was just part of the process. He advised her not to take it personally, yet she recalled with great clarity how angry he was that Tony was read in on a classified operation a year earlier and he was left out. Still, overall, his words were sound advice.

So she sat. She waited. She stared at nothing hoping her phone would ring.

"Agent Bishop," Vance's voice called to her from the landing on the stairs. "With me."

He nodded once then started up the stairs again. Bishop sprang from her desk and started for the stairs. She had never been called to Vance's office. She certainly never spoke with him on her own. Gibbs did both often. Tony did so on occasion as well. McGee and Vance mostly conversed while in MTAC, and of all the agent's on Gibbs' team, McGee was the one who spent the most time in there due to his technical skills. There was a rumor Vance preferred McGee's resume to Tony's. Bishop did not know where that left her in the Director's books. She was a college graduate, but she did not have McGee's degrees. She had no law enforcement background like Tony did. She had no military background like Gibbs.

Her short legs carried her up the stairs as her heart began to race. When she stepped into the Director's Office, she felt nervous. Vance was already behind his immense desk as bright light from the hot, humid day streamed in through the large bank of windows behind him. Bishop squinted as she stood before him finally understanding Tony's recurring quip about feeling like he was going to the principal's office anytime Vance summoned him.

"Kyle Renner," the Director said without preamble. "What do we know?"

She blanked.

She knew the name. She knew it meant something to her but her mind was empty—a first for her in her entire life. Vance seemed to understand this as he sighed and sat forward in a more engaging pose.

"Retired Petty Officer living in Norfolk," he began.

Bishop nodded as the details streamed back to her in a torrent.

"Mr. Renner runs a charter boat company, moderately successful, lives within his means," she reported. "He's one of our witnesses to the suspected onboard murder of a drug dealer at the base in Alameda in 1987."

"We still haven't spoken to him about that?" Vance wondered.

"No, sir," she shook her head. "I was pulled off that inquiry last fall when Mr. Parsons started his investigation. I had planned to follow up but…"

She stopped. Her follow up was delayed after McGee busted her on the snooping she was doing and the lying she was doing about it. That he forgave her relatively quickly and never mentioned the incident again did not lessen her guilt over it.

"But?" Vance prompted.

"But I didn't," she said simply. "We had other cases and Mr. Parsons ordered us to cease and desist all peripheral inquiries related to the drug ring. I was told you were in agreement."

"I am," Vance nodded. "I also have been told by Mr. Parsons on several occasions he is decidedly uninterested in our cold case. You don't have a lot of experience in criminal investigations outside of our work for us, do you, Agent Bishop?"

She shook her head and felt her palms grow moist. She tried to keep her face impassive but feared that she looked worried or worse constipated while doing so.

"Let me give you some advice," Vance began. "No detail is ever unimportant. No lead is unworthy of following. You should at least take a peek under every stone. You triage what's important, but follow up and follow through are what finds answers. I know that. Mr. Parsons, given his exulted position as lead special counsel for the United States Office of the Inspector General, surely should know that."

"Yes, sir," she nodded, clueless as to where this discussion was going.

"So, that being said, from his lack of interest for our cold case both in word and action we can deduce what?" he asked.

Bishop blinked. She gazed back at him, spying his enigmatic half grin, and decided Tony was right that in another life Leon Vance was probably the best gambler in the old west for his expression was completely unreadable. But, taking a lesson from Gibbs, she listened to what he gut was telling her.

"That the cold case is therefore not considered a part of his ongoing investigation," she suggested.

"Very astute," Vance nodded. "You feel like getting out of the office today?"

"Yes, sir," she nodded. "Do you want me to bring Mr. Renner here?"

"No," Vance shook his head. "I want you to go to the Norfolk Office. See Agent Cassie Yates. I'm sending her instructions to go with you so that you both can bring Mr. Renner to the Norfolk Office to answer some questions."

Bishop blanched. She had never interrogated on her own before. In fact, she had never actually interrogated at all. She questioned but she never put anyone in the room and was the lead on the inquiry.

"You'll be fine," Vance said reading her hesitation. "Cassie is one of our best. She'll be there with you to assist. Mr. Renner is just going to answer a few questions about what he remembers about that day. Before you go, I want you to pull up Agent Gibbs's supplementary report from his interview with Agent McGee. You may disclose to Mr. Renner the details in the report, but you are only to refer to Agent McGee and Carter Scott as witnesses. No names. No ages. Just say witnesses have come forward. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," she nodded and felt like an idiot for she knew she was beaming.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _NCIS Back Elevator_**

Abby leaned against the back of the elevator and fanned herself with a copy of the report she had just brought upstairs for no reason. She was scolding herself quietly for printing a report for Gibbs when he was not even there to receive it. She knew he was still away because McGee was still away. Where her head was lately she did not know.

Mommy brain, she told herself as she rubbed the ever-growing bulge at her midsection.

The report in question was the final analysis of an accelerant used in a fire at NAS Pax River in May. The team had already arrested the torch responsible for the blaze, but the final analysis of the chemical used had taken longer to identify. Gibbs would ultimately sign off on the case and hand it officially over to the JAG office in charge of prosecuting. It was a formality at this point, but one that needed to be taken care of none the less.

That she was tired from restless sleep, partly due to the weather and partly due to being alone, did not help matters. Her mind was elsewhere that day. McGee was still in Puerto Rico, possible the only place hotter than DC in her estimation that morning, and would be missing her appointment that afternoon. She did not expect there to be any earthshattering news from it, but she was going to have the 3D sonogram and she knew he wanted to be present to see it when she did. She sighed realizing he would need to watch the electronic copy of it when he did return.

As the sweltering elevator reached the ground floor, the doors opened to reveal the Director waiting for the car.

"Director?" Abby blinked. "What are you doing down here? Is something wrong?"

Vance smiled easily and shook his head. Whether she was being overly protective of her lab, her technicians or worrying about bad news from afar, he did not know. He had grown to know his lead forensic scientist on a personal level in the last few years primarily through his daughter; Abby stepped in as an eager science tutor on several occasions, yet he still could not hazard a guess at what she was thinking.

"I was down here to ask Mr. Perrine if he could speed up his impact analysis for the Clemmons case," Vance said. "Special request from the Judge Advocate General. The have a short turnaround on a related case and are hoping to wrap up the Clemmons business first. That's all."

Abby sighed with relief and relaxed visibly.

"That's good," she said. "I mean, rushed science is never good, but if that's the reason then it's better than… well, it being something else."

Vance nodded.

"How are you feeling?" he asked. "The air down here is a little warm. If the climate control isn't working, the maintenance team can fix it."

"Oh, it's not that," Abby shook her head. "It's the new negative pressure sensor in the Chem Lab. They prevent airflow from traveling in or out of the room to prevent contamination should something happen. Unfortunately, they work too well. They have tricked the A/C into thinking it doesn't need to run. The head of maintenance is in touch with the manufacturer. They're sending someone tomorrow to make adjustments."

Vance smiled and nodded, glad the building wasn't falling apart—in particular the pricey sensors in the lab that took a chunk out of the forensics budget over the last quarter.

"As long as that's the only complaint," he said as he started toward the elevator.

"Well, it's not the only one," she said. "It's just the only one that will be coming from me. It's a good thing Gibbs took McGee with him this week. He would have a few things to say about the cascading effects of our overzealous sensor and their impact on my fragile condition."

Vance raised an eyebrow. Abby was an acquired taste, one he had learned to appreciate over time. Her apparent irreverence, which was actually he learned a sign of respect, took some getting used to but once understood it was easy to handle. Still, he found her husband easier to comprehend but fully understood what she meant.

"It's more than his prerogative to worry—it's his duty," Vance informed her. "Trust me. It's a father-thing. You could walk around in a hazmat suit and ride around in a tank, but Agent McGee would still worry and so would I in his position."

She offered him an adoring look that made him worry briefly that he was about to become the victim of a hug, but she valiantly held back though he could see she was sorely tempted.

"You can say that without the anxiety-ridden look in your eyes," she noted. "Is there any way to teach Tim that?"

Vance chuckled and shook his head as he summoned the elevator.

"Can't be done," he shook his head.

"Because he's terminally predisposed to worry and anxiety?" she sighed.

"No," Vance shook his head as he stepped into the elevator. "Because he's your husband and the father of your unborn children. By the way, it looks like he'll be on a flight later this afternoon. You can explain the sensor malfunctions to him if you want, but just let him know I've already heard your complaint."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _NCIS Office, Norfolk_**

Bishop took a second deep breath as she waited in the hallway outside the interrogation room. Agents from the field office had delivered a belligerent retired sailor by the name of Renner to the room 30 minutes earlier. At the suggestion of senior field agent Cassie Yates, they were letting the man sweat. Yates lingered in the hall with Bishop appearing outwardly cooler than her young colleague.

"How is Tim doing?" Yates asked. "I haven't been up to the Navy Yard since last year when he was still in the hospital. We've emailed a few times, but it's mostly been case stuff."

"He's good," Bishop nodded. "You heard his and Abby's news?"

"They got married last fall," Cassie nodded. "I was a little surprised but also a little not. When he was stationed here before being transferred to work for Gibbs, he had an overwhelming crush on her."

"He actually still does," Bishop smiled. "They're expecting now—twins."

"No way," Cassie gaped then smiled. "Wow. Abby having a baby? Sorry, two babies? Well, that is a shock. Good for them. Guess they'll be our next generation of super high-tech science guru crime fighters. That much brain power and science/techno babble spouting from even one body may be what finally makes Gibbs retire."

Bishop laughed but more from nerves than anything else. She had read the case notes and knew what she intended to ask. She just needed to calm herself so that she could do it. Show no fear, that was Cassie's main advice. That plus don't treat the questioning like a script. She needed to be fluid and roll with the session and make changes to her approach as needed.

Mostly, she didn't want to have her mind go blank or give in to the urge to run out of the room and call Gibbs for his instructions.

"You ready?" Cassie asked and saw hesitation in the agent's eyes. "You'll be fine. This isn't a murder suspect. There's no vital case on the line. This is just you talking to him about something he knows that you want to know, too. That's all."

Bishop nodded then took a deep breath and entered the room with Yates following her.

The room on the other side of the door was stuff and wreaked of sweat. Renner was overweight, red-faced and balding. His hands were calloused and gnarled, but they were also folded as if in prayer. He looked up at the agents with watery, red-rimmed eyes.

"I knew this day would come," he said in a shaky voice. "God forgive me."

Then he collapsed on the table in a heap of sobs.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Vance's Office_**

The director stared at his desk with wide and shocked eyes.

"He did what?" he asked flatly in to the phone.

"He confessed to knowing about the murder of one Joaquin Guzman," Bishop reported as Yates handed her another printout of the information they were pulling out of various systems. "He claims he was on the ship when he happened by one of the maintenance rooms near the ship's laundry. He had been sent by one of his commanding officers to locate two boys from the Tiger Cruise group who had wandered off. He said he was told he needed to locate them and get them back without there being an obvious search of the ship as one of the boys was the son of an officer."

"John McGee," Vance guessed with great accuracy.

"Yes," Bishop replied. "Then-Captain McGee was the highest ranking parent/officer aboard the vessel for the cruise. It seems he left the ship when called to duty for something and left his son in the care of the officer in charge of the Tiger Cruise, a Lt. Commander Neil Jackson."

Now Captain Jackson, Vance sighed and rubbed his brow. Yet again the many threads of this case started to twist and turn on each other. He commanded his agent to continue.

"Mr. Renner was searching for the boys when he arrived in a room where there was an altercation in progress," she said. "At that time, the ship was docked at the port, and there were civilian contractors on board for routine maintenance duties. At first, Renner thought it was a workman's disagreement, but he overheard voices talking about packages and deliveries and money. It was the money that caught his attention. When he stepped in to inquire, he saw one of the ship's officers pulling a knife out of the civilian's chest."

Vance sighed. Renner witnessed the murder and his silence was bought somehow. That led to a lot of questions, but from what they knew of Renner's career, the Navy was all he had. He would do anything to preserve it. Obviously a threat and pressure was applied. Whoever did it, however, apparently had some level of respect for Navy personnel or might have hoped to ensnare Renner in whatever the assaulting officer was doing.

"Director," Yates added as if reading Vance's mind, "Renner was asked to help stash drugs on the ship. He was paid a few times for looking the other way and for hiding a package or two in the laundry area. Sounds pretty low level, but I believe him."

"Who was the officer?" Vance demanded.

"He won't say," Bishop seethed. "I tried everything, sir. I just… I can't break him."

Vance smirked. Her frustration was apparent and laughable. Breaking a suspect was not something anyone did on a first, second, or third try when they initially began working interrogation rooms.

"That's understandable, Special Agent Bishop," Vance offered. "This is not our last conversation with Mr. Renner. I want him held as a material witness in the murder of Mr. Guzman—protective custody but with bars on the windows, for his own safety and to think about what his continued silence will cost him."

"One holding cell reservation coming up," Yates said.

"Sir?" Bishop asked before the call ended.

"Yes?"

"He said these people make us disappear," Bishop revealed. "He said that's why he'll tell us most of what he knows, but he's afraid they'll eliminate him if he tells us everything. I think he knows about more people dying or disappearing. He seems legitimately afraid it could happen to him, sir."

As he should be, Vance thought to himself.

"That's why it's protective custody, Agent Bishop," Vance reminded her solemnly.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Luis Muñoz Marín International Airport_**

Tony sat at the gate, which was conveniently also McGee's gate despite their departure times being more than an hour apart. He wasn't sure why he was sticking close to McGee. The guy was not the least bit sympathetic to his mild hangover. It might have had something to do with the even less sympathetic vibe he got off Gibbs, who had disappeared to points unknown after they passed through security. Either way, Tony was mad at McGee simply because he was getting to go home to DC where it as a mere 88 degrees with 65 percent humidity rather than the 96 degree with 89 percent humidity he would experience in Haiti.

Making matters worse was the insufferable pout he spied on his partner's face as he stared disappointedly at his phone. As suspected, the network in Puerto Rico was easily overwhelmed leaving McGee slightly out of touch with the rest of the globe and putting him on the verge of hives, Tony suspected, from the agitation he sensed from the guy.

"Are you going to tell me what's bugging you, or is this another one of your colossal secrets?" Tony growled.

"I don't keep secrets," McGee grumbled in return.

"Yes, you do," Tony asserted. "You're a secret keeper."

"Discretion is not the same thing as keeping secrets," he insisted.

"Hid that you had a sister," Tony began ticking the evidence off his fingers.

"Not relevant to my job," McGee argued.

"Hid that you wrote a book," Tony added.

"Again, not relevant to my job," he said.

"It was about your job, _Agent McGregor_ ," Tony countered. "Hid that you were getting engaged."

"That really had nothing to do with my job, and I did tell you just before I proposed to Abby," McGee said.

"Only because I forced you to," Tony shook his head. "We're friends—I was your best man. You should have shown me more respect. Oh, and finally, as if my point was not already made beyond a reasonable doubt, there's one more example: Hid that you're going to be a father."

The mention of Abby's pregnancy rubbed a sore spot for McGee and deepened his already sour scowl. He tensed in his seat and clenched his jaw tighter.

"That was Abby's request, and there were good reasons," he said. "We told everyone as soon as…"

"So we agree you have a pattern of deception," Tony interrupted.

"Stop talking to me," McGee ordered harshly.

Tony shirked at the aggressive and angry tone. It was one thing to hit a nerve and get McGee miffed, but what he heard was definitely on the edge of anger. McGee did not usually get that way from a little bit of teasing. His manners usually kicked in, and he would attempt to take the high road of simply ignoring Tony. This sudden shift prompted concern in the older agent.

"Chill," Tony said. "What are you so torqued about? Okay, this trip was a total failure, I got that, but it wasn't so bad. Think about it: No bodily fluids or body parts to collect. No dumpster of rotting trash to sift through for evidence. This assignment was a vacation compared to what we normally have to do."

McGee scoffed. Vacation? It was hardly that. He was stuck in a climate that made his asthma flare. He was at a loss for where to look next for his friend. He was being excluded from looking for their other suspect. It felt like a total waste of his time to have come.

"I just want to go home," he said.

"Homesick?" Tony teased.

"I want to see Abby and sleep in my own bed," McGee said with a clenched jaw as the pang of regret for being away so long for no apparent reason twinged in his chest.

"I get it," Tony nodded. "Hey, someone marries a guy like you and choses to reproduce with you, that's something to cherish. Granted, I doubt her sanity, but Abby is far wiser than I am."

"Giving up the campaign for godfather?" McGee asked coldly.

Tony blinked, stunned by the harshness of the comment. He was about to question it when he spied McGee look at again at his ineffectual phone. The reason then hit him, and he felt foolish for not picking up on it sooner.

"How many calls did you miss?" he asked. "If it was more than two per day, it might be cause for concern, but you know if anything was wrong the office would have gotten in touch with you. Relax. She's fine. The babies are fine."

McGee sighed, taking the information as logical and even believing it, but that did not change the way he felt. He had missed her latest doctor's appointment and felt unbelievably guilty. He had vowed from the start that he would be better at the role of father than the Admiral and already he had missed two appointments because of his job. He feared it was the start of a pattern that bothered him deep in his bones and he said so to Tony.

"You?" Tony chuckled. "Not a doting and involved father? Oh please. I'll be you carry the pictures of the McTadpoles in your wallet."

When McGee scoffed and rolled his eyes, Tony smacked his own forehead at his stupidity.

"Right," he said. "What was I thinking? That's so last century. You saved them on your cell, didn't you, MciPhone?"

When McGee looked away, Tony knew it was a confession.

"That's what I thought," the senior field agent prodded. "You're disgustingly predictable—you know that's what the terrorists want, don't you? Alright, come on. Let me see them."

McGee resisted initially, but the pull to show Tony was stronger than his will to ignore his partner despite his desire to be angry and left alone. He brought up the two pictures and handed over the device.

"Egg-shaped head, scrawny physique," Tony remarked as he turned his head to the side while staring at the images. "Yes, I do see a strong family resem—"

McGee tore the phone from his hands as Tony chuckled in jest. He then sighed and softened his expression.

"McGee, come on," he pleaded. "You know I was kidding. I wouldn't make fun of your kids. I was making fun you. I'm just trying to get you to relax and loosen up. Sorry, okay?"

McGee huffed and stowed his phone back in his pocket as he continued to scowl, but he slumped in his seat as the worst of his anger melted to be replaced by the more pervasive emotion of disappointment in himself. Tony's chiding meant nothing. He was used to the teasing. What was bothering him was deeper than the ineffectual picking.

"Those are cool pictures, Tim," Tony said sincerely. "I mean it. Honest. Look, I know you're not really even pissed at me. I know you. You're worried because you're here and your family is back home. I guess worrying is part of the job, huh? The whole waiting to be a dad thing, it's gotta be a littIe nerve-wracking."

McGee shrugged.

"Not always," he said as he looked at the plane he should have boarded an hour earlier but was delayed due to mechanical issues. "Just… sometimes."

"Like now?" Tony suggested as he looked at his partner's misery. "You're feeling cut off and out of touch. You know that if Abby was sick or anything was wrong, someone would have gotten word to you."

"I don't think she's sick," he relented and explained. "I try to go to her appointments with her each month. I missed this one and the last way, okay? Go ahead. Make fun of me."

Tony regarded him thoughtfully as he shook his head and smiled with understanding.

"No, I won't except to say: What's the matter with you?" he replied and cuffed the back of his partner's head lightly. "So what if you missed two? You're going to see her in a few hours. Once you get home, you can make up for it by playing doctor."

McGee scoffed as he shook his head and scowled.

"See, this is why I don't tell you anything," he remarked. "You don't understand."

"Because I don't have kids?" Tony countered. "McGee, they aren't born yet. They don't know your job got in the way a couple times. Missing a couple doctor's appointments doesn't mean you aren't fulfilling your duties as a father."

"My father thought the same thing," he offered.

"No, the problem with your father wasn't his job, it was that he didn't make good use of the time he had when he was with you," Tony said. "Look, accept this now: Things get missed and life gets in the way of perfection. It's okay. Hey, my father missed my high school graduation and my college graduation."

McGee rolled his eyes at the comparison.

"Even you missed your college graduation, Tony," he reminded his partner. "You told me you were at party during the ceremony."

Tony shrugged and smiled proudly and guiltily.

"My point is if I had gone to the ceremony, my dad wouldn't have been there, and I knew it," he counseled. "You're not going to be that kind of dad, Tim. Maybe you'll be there for the first day of school or maybe you'll be called to work. I don't know. But here's what I do know: You'll be there nearly every other night for homework and dinner. You'll be there on weekends and holidays. You'll go on boring family vacations and take a thousand pictures that will embarrass them later. You'll make it to every annoying school play and science fair possible. You'll go to Little League and soccer practices as well as the games and stay for the whole thing every time. Your kids aren't ever going to have to search the crowd wondering if you're there. They'll know that, if by some chance you aren't there, that Abby will be and that she'll be filming the whole thing for you so you can watch it with the kids later. And when you are there, they know that you'll be in the front row because that's who you are. You won't be the cool laid-back dad who lets them get away with whatever they want, but you'll be there for everything they need. That's what a good father does and that's more important than going to a few doctor's appointments before you've ever met the little critters."

McGee offered him a surprised and questioning look. Tony shrugged and nodded sincerely.

"No joke; no punch line," Tony said. "It doesn't happen often, but I know in this regard you will impress me. Hell, the angst you feel over missing your wife's doctor's appointment already makes me jealous of your kids. I love my Dad, but my mom was the one who was at all my school things and all my games until she died. Kids need that kind of stuff, and you'll be good at it. So don't sweat this. You've got your priorities straight. You've got this, man."

McGee nodded, struck dumb by the confidence and sincerity in his partner's voice and expression.

"Was that all contrived to get a namesake or the title of godfather?" he asked.

Tony shook his head and chuckled.

"No, but I'm thinking now that it's a pretty argument for both, huh?" he grinned eagerly as he listened to the PA system then clapped McGee on the shoulder. "That's your flight they're calling. Time to go home. Give my best to Abby and the little McSuitos. See you in a few days."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _McGee and Abby's Home_**

McGee entered the darkened house and wearily made his way quietly up the stairs. He noted light leaked under his bedroom door as he approached. He opened the portal to find a puzzling sight. The bed was heaped with apparently every pillow in the house as if someone had gathered them all and piled them around the edges of the bed. In the center, Abby snoozed peacefully cuddling with what looked like one of his T-shirts after having fallen asleep with the lights on.

He was crossing the room to turn off the slights when she stirred and her eyes fluttered open. She smiled in a sleepy way as she yawned and stretched like a lazy cat.

"McGee," she grinned. "You're home."

"Yeah," he nodded as he looked at the unexpected disarray of the room. "What happened in here?"

"Oh," Abby chuckled as she struggled to a sitting position. "I'm nesting—like literally. I built an actual nest."

McGee lifted his eyebrows as his chin dropped briefly before he shrugged.

"Okay," he noted. "Why?"

"I had a slumber party last night," Abby explained. "Sarah came over and spent the night. We were watching movies. She told me about how you used to build her couch forts when you were kids so we kind of made our own. It sort of fell apart since last night, but I thought since you were coming home we could build another one. Only I fell asleep because you're late."

McGee sighed and tossed several of the pillows into a far corner, cutting an in road into her fluffy fortifications so that he could take a seat on the bed beside her. He explained about his phone difficulties and the flight delays.

"I know," Abby said as she pet his cheek, feeling the heat from the touch of redness she saw. "I've been tracking your flights online all day. Oh, look at you. You got a sunburn. Honey, skin cancer is the…"

"I don't have skin cancer," he cut off her worry and lecture. "I was in the sun too long one day. It'll be fine in another day. No need to worry. How are you? How was your appointment? What did the doctor say?"

She grinned at his worry immediately after telling her she wasn't to do the same to him. She figured they would either have the two most neurotic kids on the planet or raise a duo who never sweat anything.

"I'll leave out how much weight I've gained because Dr. Shinseki assures me that is a number I don't need to worry about at this point," she said with a twisted smile. "Overall, everything is good. Everyone is… growing so six thumbs up."

"Six?" he questioned as she nodded eagerly then he nodded his understanding. "You and the two of them?"

"Yep, clean bill of health for us all," she reported. "You can stop worrying and feeling badly that you weren't there. What you should do is start noticing. Did you see this?" To emphasize her question, she scrambled to her knees and ran her hands over her nightshirt. "This is a major growth spurt. It's like there was this little pouch here at the start of the week, then I went to sleep one night and whamo! O woke up and this just popped right out. It's like something out of a scifi movie. Wow, I never thought of it until now, but I'm kind of my own lab now. I'm officially Labby."

McGee simply nodded, smiling at her mirth and excitement.

"It's a good thing Sarah and I went shopping on the other day or I'd be forced to wear a bedsheet toga to work," she continued.

McGee smiled and pulled her into his arms to greet her properly, feeling the changes in her body and swallowing the lump of regret in his throat. It was easier to do since Tony talked to him. It didn't eliminate all of his feelings of guilt for missing the appointment, but it was hard to argue with what his partner laid out for facts.

"Welcome home," Abby cooed as she pulled her lips back slowly. "Mmm, you taste like an orange. My developing mommy instincts are making me say this: Tell me you had more than juice for dinner."

"I had more than juice for dinner," McGee replied cagily.

"Nutterbutters?" she scowled as his wide eyed expression answered for him. "That's not a real meal, McGee. Your chest sounds tight. Did you take your asthma meds? Where is your inhaler?"

McGee scoffed lightly as he shook his head and brushed her hair from her shoulders.

"You're their mother, not mind," he reminded her. "I'm fine. No worrying about me. You tried to call me twice the other day but didn't leave a message. Why? What was going on?"

"I wanted to let you know I had sort of a surprise for you," she replied.

Abby grinned and grabbed his hand, pressing it to her side as she had begun to feel the wiggling sensation that spurned her call. She wasn't sure calling him was necessary, but she wanted to share the moment. She had felt movement from the inside previously, but that day was the first time she was able to detect it from the outside as well. She didn't leave a message because she did not want him to feel extra cut off since she knew he was already saddened by missing her appointment.

As if on cue, there was small nudge as some body part bumped into the side of her burgeoning belly. Instinctively, McGee's hand jumped away but he replaced it swiftly as he gasped and blinked in surprise.

"That was…," he gaped. "I could… Does it hurt?"

"No," she chuckled at his astounded expression. "So, what do you think?"

"Amazing," he said dreamily before kissing her again. "How often do they do that?"

"More and more," she replied. "Right now, it's sporadic. A little in the morning, a bit during the day, but at night it's like a whole circus is starting up. I think we've created a pair of night owls."

McGee rolled his eyes. That was entirely her doing as far as he was concerned. He had learned how to go long hours without sleep since joining Gibbs' team. Abby thrived in the dark hours naturally.

"How as the trip?" she asked.

"It was a colossal failure," McGee groaned.

He turned off the light and kicked off his shoes, opting to sleep in his clothing because getting undressed would take too much energy. Besides, he reasoned nonsensically, he was technically in a nest and he wasn't sure what the etiquette was for that. So, rather than waste time thinking about it, he lay back on the bed, pulled her into his arms.

"We didn't find who we were looking for," he said. "I got a text message from Tony just before I got here. He and Gibbs missed Colson, the guy they were tracking, by two hours in Haiti. Vance can't get them permission to pursue further so they're heading back now I guess."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she consoled him. "But I'm glad you're home. I don't like it when you're gone far away. The house feels… odd."

"Odd?" McGee yawned as he placed his palm on her belly and continued to feel one of their children doing yoga in utero. "Odd how?"

"I don't know," she said. "I just got this weird feeling after Sarah and I were gone shopping all day. She ran to the store to get a few things so we could make dinner and I felt like… like I wasn't alone."

"You're not," McGee sighed tiredly. "You're carrying the babies with you."

Abby smirked but shook her head.

"No, it just felt weird," she said nestling close to him. "Maybe your paranoia about the keeping the curtains closed is rubbing off on me even more."

McGee sighed, breathing in the soft scent of her hair and feeling the tension built up in his body begin to relax as his mind drifted.

"Maybe your voodoo is backfiring, and you're summoning something when you burn those vile weeds," he said without thinking.

He received a sharp elbow to the ribs that jolted his eyes open as he grimaced.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Didn't realize I said that out loud."

"Well, you did," Abby remarked. "Don't mock voodoo and make fun of my extra sensory sensations. I was wondering if it might be electrical. Sarah said she saw the power company was at the Henderson's across the street when she got up this morning. I called the utility company, just to be sure there wasn't a problem, like stray voltage coming into any of the houses. They think I'm crazy."

"Because your theory of stray current is less likely than voodoo gone bad?" he teased although the mention of another maintenance van made his antenna twitch.

"No," she mumbled as she cuddled closer to him. "They said they didn't repair anything out here. I guess Sarah must have confused what she saw."

McGee nodded and sighed then his eyes flew open as another possibility screamed in his tired mind.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come.


	47. Chapter 47

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Vance stormed off the elevator first thing in the morning. His expression was hot, and his jaw was clenched tight. He was summoned from his home by news out of Norfolk that set his temper and nerves on edge.

"Agent Bishop," he demanded as he approached her desk. "What happened?"

"I don't know," she shook her head. "Agent Yates called me this morning then I called you. She tried pulling the surveillance footage, but…"

"But what?" Vance demanded with his eyes wild.

"It's… gone," Bishop said. "Erased."

"Erased?" Vance repeated. "Someone erased the coverage of the hallways around the cellblock at the Norfolk detention facility for the night that our material witness died while in our custody?"

Bishop winced and nodded.

She received the call just before 6 a.m. from Yates telling her that the guards found Kyle Renner dead in his cell. The initial thought was he had a heart attack, but the body was now downstairs to have that verified. The apparent tampering with the security footage, however, made the death instantly suspect.

"It's Saturday, sir," Bishop reminded him. "Ducky isn't working today, but I called Jimmy Palmer, and he offered to come in to begin taking blood samples and doing the external exam, if you would like."

"Get him in here," Vance ordered.

His shoulders hunched in anger while he looked around the nearly empty squad room. His top team was still scattered that morning leaving him with the newest member only. As far as the director knew, Gibbs and DiNozzo were supposed to be catching a flight out of Santiago (after traipsing out of Haiti and into the Dominican Republic without permission). McGee was supposed to return the previous day. Vance exhaled angrily. They were losing control of the investigation.

"Figure this out for me, Agent Bishop," Vance said. "Get whatever help you can find and bring me something that gets us out of this mess. Fast."

As he stalked toward the stares, Bishop dropped into her seat and forced her heart to calm itself. She sent a quick text message to Palmer requesting his offered help ASAP. At least getting a jump on the time consuming tests that would go to the lab would help. Her first inclination was to call Abby to see if she would come in to conduct them, but Bishop stopped. Abby didn't touch blood samples or any physical evidence taken from bodies at this time. She left conducting the tests to her techs. She was in charge of reviewing and interpreting the results. Even if Palmer got his part of the exam done by noon, it would be another 12 hours before the lab tests were complete, and that was only if whatever techs were working the weekend shift were not backed up with other cases already. Then there was the issue of bringing Abby in on her day off to read and make sense of the results.

Bishop hated to do that. She didn't like losing her weekend. She really didn't want to take away anyone else's, especially Abby's. The forensic scientist was in fully baby preparation mode lately. There was talk of nursery furniture the previous week and McGee had supposedly arrived home the previous day. Bothering the couple was the last thing she wanted to do.

And it turned out she didn't have to.

"Ellie, I need your help," McGee said as he hurried to her desk from the elevator.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. "Wow, you go some sun, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess," he shook off the observation. "I need your help."

Bishop nodded and considered this a fortuitous turn of events. She was in need of his as well. Foregoing the evidence from the body was probably not wise, she realized, but there was another avenue of inquiry she was considering. Granted, Vance likely didn't want McGee anywhere near the investigation in Norfolk considering his attachment to the cold case; however, there was a way he could help without leaving the Navy Yard.

"Quid pro quo," she offered feeling like Tony should be in the background doing a Hannibal Lecter impersonation. "I'll do whatever you want if you help me out with something for Director Vance."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Abby and McGee's Home_**

The Dominion Virginia Power Company's bucket truck lowered the utility worker back to the ground in front of the utility pole in front of the Henderson home, across the street from the two NCIS employees' dwelling. The hardhat wearing worker held out his insulated gloved hand to Bishop. She lifted her camera and took a picture before letting him drop the small L-shaped piece of metal into her latex gloved hand.

"Found that atop the pole, Ma'am," he replied. "It's been up there a while, whatever it is. The grit and grime is built up a bit around the screws that were holding it in place. The other part of the metal is fairly clean like it just got exposed to the weather recently."

Bishop dropped the piece into an evidence bag and hoped (probably foolishly) that they might pull prints from it in the lab.

"What do you think it is?" she asked.

"No idea," he shrugged. "Could be a bracket of some kind. Can't figure what anyone would put up there. The cable junction box is three feet below where I found this. Never seen anything like it myself."

Bishop nodded and thanked him and looked across the street to Abby and McGee's home. The pole had a perfect vantage point for seeing anything coming or going at the house or down either side of the street. A small, battery operated transmitter could easily surveil the home and part of the street without capturing any notice.

She put the piece of evidence in her backpack as she wandered across the street to Abby and McGee's home. It was a quiet neighborhood. Bishop had already talked to three neighbors who were curious what was going on. They seemed to keep a close eye on their neighbors out of genuine concern. All seemed aware of the couple's family news and the neighbors expressed worry that something might have happened to one of them that spawn the attention of NCIS. Bishop assured them all was well and that she was doing a routine check following an anonymous tip. All seemed to take that answer in stride. Each that she spoke to seemed to like the couple at the center of the morning's attention. They stated Abby and McGee were quiet and thoughtful neighbors. Most were eager for the new family members to make their appearance in the fall. None of the neighbors recalled seeing anything suspicious other than wondering if their electricity or cable might be going on the fritz after seeing power and cable trucks in the neighborhood every few weeks in the last nine months.

 _Replacing the power sourced_ , Bishop nodded to herself. That was what the mystery truck was doing. McGee's occasional complaint that he felt he was being watched was apparently well-founded. His concern skyrocketed the previous evening when Abby told him of her feeling she was not alone in the house. When he put together what that might mean, the agent did not sleep. He spent the night by his wife's side listening to every creak and groan in the house suspiciously.

Upon waking for the day, he arranged for Abby to go to his grandmother's. What rouse (if any) that entailed Bishop did not know. She was just happy it worked. Abby would not take well to learning she and her husband had been the subject of spying for the better part of a year. Bishop shook her head and dialed her phone.

"McGee," he answered briskly after the first ring.

"I've got something," Bishop replied. "But whatever was up on that pole was removed recently. It could be that someone was spying but pulled up stakes and left. Good news is that whoever it was, they were doing it remotely. It doesn't seem like anyone was actually staking out your house. Could be Abby's feeling the other day was just a coincidence."

McGee sighed. He hoped so, but as his father drummed into him long ago, hope was not a course of action.

"You go through the house yet?" he asked.

"Just letting myself in now," Bishop replied as she crossed the threshold. "Hey, this is nice. I like the layout. Feels… homey."

"Great," McGee grumbled. "We'll have you over for dinner. Now, could you look for bugs or cameras or… I don't know, serial stalkers hiding in the coat closet."

Bishop heard the stress and frustration in his voice but she smiled. She still felt like the new kid on the team, which she was, but being asked to take the lead on searching McGee's house felt like an honor to Bishop. This was where McGee lived with his wife. This was where his private life existed, something he zealously guarded. She was being entrusted to take care of something deeply important and personal to him. Granted, given the choice, he would have Gibbs and Tony there as well as himself, but none of those were options that morning. McGee was diving deep into the agency's mainframe memory to try recovering the erased security footage from Norfolk for Bishop. Meanwhile, she was seeing to the security and integrity of his home.

"Did you find anything for me yet in the computer?" she asked as she began her sweep with a frequency detector for any device emitting a transmission.

"It's definitely not a system glitch," McGee replied. "Someone tapped in locally and rebooted the sectors. However…"

"I like it when you say however," Bishop offered encouragingly.

"They didn't go into the root directory to erase the backup," he replied with a yawn. "Unfortunately, the backup isn't an executable file. It's all the bits of the data thrown into what you could think of as a large footlocker. All the parts are here, they're just not together right now. I need to get the algorithm running to start synthesizing the data. It's going to take a while."

"You can tell that to Vance," she offered as she finished her sweep of the kitchen.

"Me?" McGee repeated. "No, you. He's expecting a briefing from you, Ellie. I'll get you a write up of what I find, but you're the one telling him."

She stopped and shook her head even though he could not see her.

"You're doing the work," she insisted. "You should get the credit."

"It's not about credit," McGee advised her. "He already knows I can do what I'm doing, and whole lot more. This is about whether you can do what he asked. He gave you a task without a lot of guidance. He wants to see how you pull it off. He knows you're going to use agency assets. Taking the lead doesn't mean you're stealing credit."

In normal circumstances, he might have considered offering a sarcastic remark about Tony at that point, but he was still feeling immensely grateful to his partner for his pep talk the previous afternoon. Besides, Tony didn't often steal credit. Like all extroverts, he just liked being in the center of things and preferred public validation.

"Anyone heart from Gibbs?" she asked as she started on another room.

"No, but Tony sent an email," McGee replied. "They were getting on their flight. They should be back in a couple hours. Gibbs will probably come into the office before he goes home. Just leave him a report on his desk and consider him brief on what happened to Renner. By the time he starts asking us for answers, Ducky may know what killed the man."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _NCIS Cyber Unit_**

McGee swiveled in the uncomfortable chair in front of the terminal he commandeered when he arrived at the computer nerve center for NCIS hours earlier. Most of the techs in the room strategically ignored him. He did not care. He was there on assignment by the Director (sort of). While he wanted to be the one searching his house for what he feared was a wealth of surveillance equipment, Bishop had reported back that other than the bracket found atop the utility pole across the street there was nothing suspicious discovered.

The bracket certainly wasn't enough to make a case of any sort, especially when there were no finger prints found on it, but McGee could not shake the idea. He had been watched. He had known it in his gut for months. The who and the why were a mystery, but he knew he wasn't crazy.

"So, you're losing your mind," Tony's voice boomed loudly in the quiet room populated by more computers than people.

McGee sat up straighter in his chair startled by his colleague's appearance.

"What are you doing here?" McGee asked.

"Looking for you," he said. "Ellie called me just after we landed two hours ago. Seriously? A bug sweep of your house? What's the matter with you?"

"I'm telling you, someone was watching," McGee said with clenched teeth. "I don't care if you don't believe me. I'm sure of it. I just don't know how to prove it."

Tony grinned then dangled an evidence bag in front of his eyes.

"It's called detective work," Tony replied flatly. "See, you do this thing called investigating. You go out in the world, leaving the computers and the electronics behind, and dig up these little things we call clues and gather this really neat stuff called physical evidence."

McGee snatched the bag from his hands and looked at it carefully. It was a small black box with a tiny power source, a wire and some sort of magnet on the bottom.

"A transmitter?" he remarked. "For what? Where was it?"

"On your car, McClueless," Tony said pulling up a chair beside him. "I just pulled it off in the parking lot like 40 minutes ago. Larry was in the lab. He pulled it apart. He said it's a GPS transmitter. You can buy them online for like $20. The trick is replacing the battery often. This model is special. It also comes with this neat sort of lipstick camera. Has this pretty basic bracket system that lets you attach it nearly anywhere."

At that, he pulled another bag from his pocket and revealed the bracket Bishop located that morning with the help of the electric company.

"Those trucks you and everyone in your neighborhood were seeing over the last few months were your Peeping Tom replacing his power source, I'll bet," Tony revealed.

"So I was right," McGee smiled initially that he wasn't crazy until the fear crept back into his expression.

"Not precisely," Tony said. "Watched yes. Bugged, no. Not as far as we can tell. Whoever it was seemed to pull up stakes and… bug out. I went over your digs with Ellie just to be sure. Hey, how come you and Abby haven't had me over for dinner or something?"

"Cause the last time you were there you passed out on the couch after singing to yourself for a few minutes," McGee replied.

Tony offered him a sour expression.

"Just for that, I'm not going to tell you what I think went on in your bedroom last night with all those pillows," Tony grinned. "All I'll say is this: McKinky."

"Tony," McGee snapped. "What did Larry find out about this transmitter? Whose following me?"

Tony shrugged and sighed. He could see his partner was rattled. He knew it was as much by the invasion of his privacy as it was fear for Abby. He had been gone for a few days, and she was alone without even Gibbs along the back property line for a sense of safety. He felt for his partner, but he felt reasonably confident he could set his mind at ease.

"I think you're in the clear now," Tony said. "I don't know why, but it doesn't look like anyone's watching you now. We checked the neighborhood. There doesn't seem to be any other devices. I ran the scanner over your car in the parking lot of kicks and found this. Per Larry, the battery is nearly dead so it's been there a while. I had Ellie check Abby's car. Nothing there. Whoever it was seems to be interested in you only. Take that as some good news."

McGee sighed as he nodded, not feeling precisely good about it, but knowing his wife was not specifically targeted did slow his heart palpitations down a bit.

"Where is Abby?" Tony asked thinking it odd she was not at the house or the office.

"Penny's," McGee replied. "I called Sarah this morning and convinced her to beg Abby to go see Penny with her today. I needed to get her out of the house so we could check for devices. I didn't want her to worry. I don't know what I'm going to tell her now."

Tony nodded his understanding and clapped his partner on the shoulder consolingly.

"She's okay, right?" he asked just to be certain. "She had her doctor's visit the other day. Everything is cool? You're just jumpy because you're jumpy, right?"

McGee relaxed slightly as he nodded. He had trusted Bishop to do the technical walkthrough at his house. He wanted to do it himself but didn't think he would have the concentration to do it as thoroughly as needed with his mind so scattered with what ifs and worries. However, knowing Tony also doubled checked her work was reassuring. He might be like a tick burrowing under McGee's skin on occasion, but he was the best cop McGee ever met besides Gibbs.

"What time is it?" McGee asked suddenly as he grabbed Tony's wrist to check his watch to see it was just past 7 p.m. "Damn. I told Abby I'd meet her for dinner at Penny's."

He had lost track of time between reconstituting the missing footage and continuing to work on the packets of data still being pulled from the pirated laptop from a year ago. He scrambled to his feet and started toward the elevator. He dug his phone out of his pocket and hit the button to summon the elevator car. Rules dictated there were to be no wireless devices in use in the heart of the cyber division so he had been cut off for hours. As he stepped into the elevator, Tony followed flagrantly checking his text messages and grinning at McGee.

"Oh, by the way, I let your wife know you were here and getting all up close and personal with a motherboard rather than the mother of your children," Tony revealed with a grin. "Not sure if you should worry or not, but from her answer it seemed to me like she didn't much care."

"You're sure you checked everything at the house?" McGee asked. "If you were in my shoes, would you let Abby stay there alone tonight?"

Tony caught himself on the verge of giving a flip response, but he could see the worry in his partner's eyes. He took a deep breath and nodded. The urge to give the Zelda Rubenstein line from "Poltergeists" was strong as well, but he refrained from telling McGee the house was clean—if only because in the movie that's when all hell broke loose.

"You're clear," Tony told him. "You going to leave her alone tonight?"

"No," McGee said adamantly. "I just wanted to know. I trust you with Abby's life so…"

Tony nodded, touched by the sentiment but not surprised by it. They might argue and grouch at each other. They might fight, snarl, pick, and tease on occasion, but that's what family did.

"It'll be fine, Tim," Tony assured him. "I'll brief Gibbs. You go pick up the family and bring them home. It'll be a quiet night. You can finally get some sleep."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Gibbs Basement_**

The sandpaper raked against the dowel as Gibbs's thumbs, which were sore and near to blistering, as he worked to create a scrolling pattern in the wood. He had been concentrating on the lathed spindle for the last hour since he returned home from a brief stopover at the office where he learned of their latest failure in Norfolk and the intrigue at McGee's and Abby's house that morning.

Watchers in the wind and now a dead retired sailor. It meant more questions, and another dead lead from another witness dead in NCIS custody.

That was too many coincidences to actually be a coincidence at all.

Bishop was tied in knots over the loss of Renner. There was still no definitive cause of death as Ducky would not do the full autopsy until Monday. However, Palmer had retrieved fluids and other samples and sent them to the lab for analysis. That would at least give them half the picture, but a single observation from Palmer was probably just as telling: bruising around the neck.

Cursory inspection by the assistant medical examiner indicated there was some level of strangulation involved in Renner's final minutes. Whether it proved fatal or something else was the cause they would find out soon enough.

What they would not learn from Renner was who he feared. They hoped to learn how someone got to him while in protective custody.

Vance was taking that hard. It was his call to lock the man up as a means to loosen his tongue. Another detail adding to his woe and worry was the inescapable possibility that it was one of NCIS's own that took Renner's life. That meant their entire covert investigation was likely compromised.

McGee was allegedly making headway on the lost security footage. Gibbs had faith in his agent's ability to put the gobbledygook of computer code back together and turn it into usable evidence. Meanwhile, Gibbs and DiNozzo returned empty handed as Colson slipped away, leading Gibbs to wonder if the NCIS mole played a role in that as well.

He sipped his Bourbon and felt the weak burn down his throat. He considered calling Ziva to see if her lead on Scott being in Norfolk had panned out any better than the one sending the team to Puerto Rico. In the middle of that decision, feet sounded on the stairs.

The bald man with one eye and a thick accent trotted to the basement workshop like he was a welcomed guest. Without being asked, he grabbed a mug off the shelf, blew the sawdust from it and poured himself a shot.

"Heard you were back from your tropical vacation," Kort said. "No souvenirs I take it?"

Gibbs eyed him coolly but did not speak. The man obviously knew what had happened. How he knew was a greater question but Gibbs knew from experience simply asking would not give him the response he wanted.

"Shame," Kort said. "The trouble with the world today is timing—no one has it. I blame it on the instant gratification of the internet and the cultural that glorifies stupid people and makes them famous."

"Been watching the presidential candidates debates, have you?" Gibbs quipped as he continued to work on the wood.

"Is one of the Kardashians running?" Kort wondered. "It's hard to tell who runs this country anymore, the entertainers or the politicians. Sad really. So you missed Colson? That's what waiting for politicians to give you permission will get you."

Gibbs shrugged. He was inclined to agree but doing so with a traitor was where he drew the line that night.

"Heard you lost another puzzle piece," Kort continued. "Not having great luck this go around, are you? I don't know who put this one down but if I were you, I'd check close to home."

"Really?" Gibbs scoffed. "Guy found dead in a cell in our custody and you're thinking inside job. Wow. You've got a gift for investigation."

Kort smirked and poured himself another shot. It was fun to taunt Gibbs, like dangling a string in front of a disgruntled cat. It didn't swipe or jump at every twitch, but when it did you could see the instinct in his eyes and (sometimes) his claws in your flesh.

"Do you want something?" Gibbs asked coldly.

"I'm hurt," Kort said. "Can't a compatriot just drop by anymore? Why must everything have a price?"

"Because you're a cold, greedy bastard who only cares about his own neck," Gibbs suggested.

Kort nodded, owning the sentiment proudly.

"Let's say it's in my best interests for you to succeed," he offered. "Of course, I can't just tell you what I want you to know. You'll go charging at it in your typical bull in a china shop way. No finesse, that's your problem."

"The Bravo-51 rifle sitting in that drawer over there is about to be your problem if you don't get to the point," Gibbs warned.

Kort shook his head but smiled admiringly.

"It's all about numbers, isn't it?" he said cryptically. "For example, in the 1980s computers took over the world. All those little numbers whizzing around and controlling our lives. Couldn't even get sick or hurt without someone putting it into a computer and cataloging it. Every patient, every treatment, every bowel movement captured for eternity in numbers and codes all so that years later someone could look back and learn everything about you from some bloody numbers. But what do we do with them? Store them and forget about them."

Gibbs shook his head uncertain what the man was getting at and not fully sure he was supposed to in the first place.

"You're a dinosaur, Gibbs," he scoffed. "Look deep and hard at this one. When it stumps you and you feel like you've walked the plank and drown, ask your surrogate son the computer genius to explain."

Gibbs offered the man a flat stare that said he was not following and was not interested in even trying. His expression invited the visitor to leave as Gibbs stole a glance at the hidden drawer that held his cleaned, well-oiled, but rarely used sniper rifle.

"Your gratitude could use a little work," Kort said as he read the man's face. "I know they don't teach manners to Marines, but I understand your father was a gracious man. Surely something he taught you made it through that granite block atop your shoulders."

Gibbs grunted and did not bother to open that discussion. Jackson Gibbs was a lot of things and, lately, missed was at the top of that list for his son. He taught Gibbs many things, some that it took decades for him to understand. There was value in making mistakes because you learned from them. Sometimes listening to understand was more important than listening to respond. And there were times when a stab in the dark could pay off.

"You know anything about a naval officer named Carter Scott?" Gibbs asked on a lark.

Kort snorted superiorly and half-shrugged at the man's tenacity and stubbornness.

"Your missing sniper?" Kort taunted. "Gets around, doesn't he? Slippery bugger from what I hear. If he wasn't so gaga from all that childhood trauma, he'd have made a good field operative. Damn shame."

"Do you know where he is or are you just talking to hear your own voice?" Gibbs asked.

Kort smirked and shook his head.

"I just hear things," he shrugged. "For example, I heard he was spending most of his time near a port in the general vicinity stalking a naval officer. Didn't hear if he was using a camera or a rifle scope to keep an eye on the man though. Heard he also has something of a fascination for a certain twiggy agent of yours who likes to break into secure servers to get his jollies. Not sure what that means, but if I was you, I'd find your wayward sailor quickly."

Gibbs stopped sanding and looked at his guest with a calculating eye. He was there to drop information, but the reason for that was unclear.

"Why?" Gibbs asked.

"He's obviously on the hunt for something," Kort surmised. "When a man with skills like his wants something and knows who can give it to him, he's more than capable forcible persuading his targets to give it up. Your Boy Scout agent might be tough enough to walk away from a gunshot wound when he's got a team of the best doctor's in the world making his heart still go pitter-pat for his vampire lover and keeping those asthma-ravaged lungs of his breathing, but I highly doubt he could withstand torture at the hands of crazy SEAL who apparently got touched in a naughty place when he was a boy."

Gibbs said nothing. Parsons never divulged where he got his information about the alleged threats to McGee, and now Gibbs wondered if perhaps that was because he did not know. An anonymous source was often not reliable, but when someone's life was threatened, it had to be taken seriously. If Kort was the one sending up the mixed signals there was probably a reason—one the investigators might never learn.

"She's not a vampire," Gibbs said mildly, ignoring the rest of the offering for the moment.

"I'm sure that's a great comfort to the nuns who bowl with her," he said as he started toward the stairs, his bizarre visit now at an end. "Or who used to bowl with her, I should say. She's more than a little out of shape for the league right now, as I understand it."

Gibbs fixed his eyes on the man

"Are you watching my team?" Gibbs asked sternly then cocked his head to the side. "Or are you watching out for them?"

Kort snorted but gave nothing away with his expression.

"Everyone needs a hobby," Kort said as he looked toward the half-finished project on the table. "Some of us just don't enjoy fondling our wood."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Penny's House_**

 ** _Bethesda, MD_**

McGee arrived at the large, old home with its meandering front walk shaded by mighty trees that Sarah was always tempted to climb but forbidden by her brother, who was terrified he would need to climb up and bring her down eventually.

He shook those childhood fears out of his mind as he approached the front door. Evening was descending as the sweltering temperatures of the day were lifting. After the oven that was the weather in Puerto Rico, the soft breeze slowly kicking up was relaxing. He had spent the 30 minutes driving to the house calming himself. Tony gave him the all-clear to take Abby home without worries. If Tony said it was so, McGee would trust that.

He had not even raised his hand to ring the bell when the door opened to reveal Penny, wearing one of her outrageously bright, flowing outfits and smiling at him as though she had been waiting.

"Ah, Timothy, there's my handsome grandson," Penny beamed as she met McGee at the door. "Have I told you recently that you're one of my favorite grandsons?"

"No, but I kind of took that for granted being your only grandson," McGee said.

"Not anymore," she said corrected him she hugged him and ushered him inside.

McGee looked at her oddly for a moment then paused and shook his head as he understood her meaning.

"Fine, then you could tell me I'm your favorite grandchild," he tried.

"Sorry, kido, no can do," she shook her head as she looped her arm through his and patted his hand consolingly. "But I will let you know that you're in my top four, honest. You almost had the top spot there in November when you married that darling girl, but just when the prize was nearly yours two new competitors showed up—which is your own fault by the way."

McGee smirked as she led him through the house toward the backdoor leading to her many gardens.

"Fault?" he repeated. "I seem to recall in May you offering a knuckle bump and a high five when I told you Abby was pregnant—it was like you were at a Wizard's game."

"Now that you mention it, I didn't thank you enough for that bit of news, did I?" she smirked as they walked stepped out of the house and turned toward her outdoor sanctuary. "Brilliant prodigy that you are, you have always known instinctively how to make me proud. I asked for great grandchildren, and you took that order like a waiter at my favorite restaurant in Lucerne and served it up perfectly. Not that I was surprised you took care of my request so swiftly. After all, McGee men are known to be exceptionally virile."

"Oh my god," McGee groaned as he hung his head and felt his face grow red. "Penny, why do you say things like that?"

"Why not?" she asked. "It's true. The proof is right there lounging on my divan in the rock garden."

She gestured to Abby who was stretched out in the shade on the lawn furniture waving merrily at them as they approached. McGee continued to blush furiously.

"I give credit where it is due," Penny insisted. "Fathering one child is a commendable feat, but giving me two cherubs to spoil and to infuse with my enlightened philosophies just because I asked is frankly a rare combination of thoughtful and studly."

"Okay," McGee shook his head. "That's… completely…. Don't… Just…"

"So modest," Penny smiled as she patted his arm as they arrived in the garden. "No wonder Abby surrendered to your charms."

"Timmy," his wife grinned as she held up her arms. "I thought you'd be here sooner to rescue me."

"Rescue?" he repeated as he leaned down to embrace her. "From what? Is something wrong?"

"Yes," she moaned as she hauled herself to a standing position. "Penny spent the whole day feeding me. I think I've put on 10 pounds just sitting here. Remember that growth spurt I mentioned last night? Well, after today, I think I'm about to have another one. I might just be the first woman in history to outgrow maternity clothes. I'm serious. I swear this shirt had a little less cling to it when I got here."

McGee shook his head but held his tongue. He was learning there were certain observations and statements she made that it was best to hear but not to acknowledge. This felt a lot like one of those topics.

"What was so important that it kept you away all day?" she asked. "Sarah left two hours ago. Penny and I waited for a while then we ate without you."

"That's fine," he said and offered her a mostly true explanation. "There was a computer problem out at the Norfolk Office late last night. Someone managed to erase all the security footage from the detention cells. The Director was asking questions about it. I had to recover the data from the backup server at the Navy Yard."

Abby groaned, understanding the monotony and difficulty in the task. She pet his arm consolingly as she fought off a yawn.

"Time to go?" he suggested.

"You just got here," she said. "You didn't get the chance to spend any time with Penny, and you didn't eat yet."

"I'll grab something at home," he said. "As for Penny, I've only recently learned I just barely make the cut for her top four favorite grandchildren. Apparently our son has usurped my post as her favorite grandson. I'm just not feeling the love and adoration tonight."

Penny chuckled knowingly.

"If that's not code for he wants to take you home and show you how much he missed you while he was gone, I don't know what is," Penny nodded and winked at Abby.

McGee offered his grandmother an adoring if suffering look. His face pulsed red through his sunburn, much like Abby's pale skin blushed pink, while he fought to keep a smirk off his lips. His grandmother was, in most basic terms, a lunatic. She was caring and brilliant and without reservation. While he never agreed with his father's opinion of her, McGee did understand the man's frustration with her.

"I may need to supervise your time with your great grandchildren until they're at least 18," McGee said.

"Well, I plan to be around a long time after that so knock yourself out," Penny offered with a careless wave of her hand. "Just know this, your father said that all the time about you and your sister, and look how well that worked. Then again, I always found it best to deal with those little power plays of his by reminding him that I changed his diapers, taught him to walk and to speak, which, when you think about it, is pretty much all it takes to be an admiral—basic mobility, rudimentary language skills and bladder control."

McGee bit his lip momentarily and bowed his head to Abby's shoulder to regain his composure and recover from his shock. After a steadying breath, he raised his head and shook it.

"I never heard you say anything like that to him," McGee remarked.

Growing up, he received emotional support from his grandmother whenever he was struggling to deal with his father's unattainable expectations. He recalled hearing many disparaging words about Penny from his father, usually in failed and inappropriate attempts to get his son to agree with him. Frequent descriptions of tree hugger, commie and hippy were normal. What McGee never heard was counter punches from Penny.

"Of course not because I said that to John when he was 19 after he had just told me his plans for world domination once he graduated from Annapolis," she remarked. "I knew then that I should have lobbied Nelson harder into letting me name our son something other than John. Admiral Moonflower McGee has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

McGee stared in shock and found he could not begin to image his father's expression if she said such things to him. Then again, his father rarely spoke to Penny at all in front of McGee. The Admiral was around so little when she was, and whenever things got to the point of more than just forced cordial hellos, McGee was often ordered to leave the room.

Abby too blinked at the name but took it with more grace than her spouse.

"Well, Moonflower is not on our list of possibilities currently," she shook her head and wrinkled her nose. "Um, neither is John. I hope you don't mind."

"Mind?" Penny shook her head. "Insist you don't consider it. I am certain that John would insist as well. My son's ego knew few boundaries, but attaining immortality for himself through carrying on his name wasn't big with him—he wouldn't have enjoyed the competition. No, he would be pushing you to go for the name Nelson, after his own father. That's what he wanted to name Timothy, but Nelson talked John and Carol out of it. My late husband believed in letting his grandson be his own person. He actually suggested your name, sweetheart. Nelson told them that there was never a Timothy McGee in the family before, and the time seemed right for that to change. Sorry about the middle name Farragut. Your father and grandfather agreed on that one. Navy men—only so much I could do with them."

McGee looked at her thoughtfully, never having heard that story before about his first name. He'd heard the middle name apologies multiple times and was grateful. While Penny was good at spinning a yarn, her grandson was good at knowing when it was true. Nothing in her voice or expression told him she was making this up.

"Now, I'm sure you're getting all sorts of suggestions on names," she said. "Don't listen to anyone but yourselves. These are your babies. You made them—and obviously you did a good job because there are two of them."

McGee gaped and shook his head, unable able to answer her for a moment as Abby giggled. Whether it was at his discomfort or Penny's comment, he did not know. What he did know was that any tension and worry he felt about returning home had faded.

"Did you talk this way in front of Grandpa?" McGee wondered.

"Honey, the things I say to you are nothing compared to what I used to say to your grandfather," she assured him with a wide grin.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Abby and McGee's House_**

The sun had recently set as the couple arrived home from Penny's. Abby recounted her day with her grandmother-in-law and her sister-in-law. The two women had argued for half the day about Sarah's academic career and whether she should continue to pursue her stalled PhD, attempt to get a novel published or run off to Europe to experience the world. They also argued about whether Penny should sell her home, or take Carol up on her offer to move back from Texas to live with Penny and offer assistance, and other similar family matters. Abby reported that the only things they seemed to agree on were that McGee worried too much about Abby and that Abby herself looked well but still needed to be waited on in the sweltering heat of the summer.

They spent the other part of the day stuffing her with food, fawning over her, and doing every last thing possible to try and get her to divulge the names of the next generation. As they pulled into the driveway, Abby was fighting successive yawns and trying not to let McGee notice. She barely had her seatbelt unbuckled before he was at her door offering her help getting up.

"You know, it's one thing if your sister and Penny run around and cater to me for a day," she teased. "You need to be careful doing it. If I get used to this hyper-attentiveness you're showing me, I'll expect it to continue even when I'm not an incubator. Like I told you from the start of this adventure, you need to let me do some things for myself before I get delusions of grandeur. For example, I can still get out of the car without your help... mostly."

He gave her assistance all the same and was about to disagree—she could see it in his face—when something caught his attention. His head did not shift, but there was suddenly tension in his shoulders and a tightness around his eyes. He kept the smile on his face, but it was a frozen look.

"What is it?" Abby asked.

"Just trying to be helpful," he said stiffly as he pointedly walked her around the back side of the car toward the front door where the moonlight and the close streetlight banished the shadows.

The side door that led from the driveway to the kitchen—the door they typically used to enter the house—was cloaked in darkness and not to his liking that sultry evening. Abby felt the rigidness of his hand on the small of her back as he kept his body close to her and walked her toward the house. After looking strategically at the street, he leaned in close and spoke in a hushed tone.

"Go across the yard to the Maitland's house, cut through their back yard and go to Gibbs's," he said firmly. "Call him now as you go so he knows you're coming. If he doesn't answer or he's not there, go inside his house anyway and stay there until I come to get you."

She heard the strap holding his weapon in its holster release under his thumb. She had forgotten he was carrying it. He spent the day at work and went directly from the Navy Yard to Bethesda afterward. Regulations required he carry the weapon from portal to portal. While having it was helpful if he suddenly fell into a work-type situation, Abby was not prepared for one of those to crop up in her front yard.

"McGee, what's going on?" she asked fearfully and placed one hand protectively on her protruding belly and pulled out her phone with the other.

"It'll be okay," he assured her before kissing her cheek dryly. There was an adamancy in his voice with a touch or fear. "Just do as I say. Don't stop. Don't look back. Go now."

He nudged her forward. She held the phone to her ear as she started walking quickly around the neighbor's empty home toward the back property line that was adjacent to Gibbs'.

"I'll be right in," he said in a more normal tone as he watched her disappear around the house. "I forgot my phone in the car."

He sighed and walked back to the driveway. He fingered the safety off on his pistol but left it in the holster not to give away his suspicions or tip his hand. He also did not want to provoke a reaction before he was certain Abby was sufficiently far away. His heart began to pound as he walked toward the car.

One house over, Abby crossed the yard swiftly as the phone on the other end of her call rang.

"Abs?" Gibbs answered on the second ring.

"Gibbs," she whispered. "Are you home? I'm nearly at your door. McGee said to call you and go to your house. I think someone's outside at the back of our house."

The back door to Gibbs' home instantly opened, he stepped outside and threw and arm around her to hurry her into the house. He seated her at the kitchen table then retrieved his weapon.

"Where's McGee?" he asked instantly checking the clip and the slide.

"Out there pretending to get his phone," she said tensely. "He had his weapon. Gibbs?"

"Stay right there," he ordered then disappeared out the door. "Don't move."

Abby found herself chanting her predictable mantra of _oh my god_ softly under her breath as she sat terrified and still at the table. She wasn't sure if the silence was good or bad. She did know that hearing a gunshot would not be preferable so she hugged her arms around herself and prayed for quiet to continue while feeling her two passengers wiggling energetically in her agitation.

Outside across the yard, McGee walked around the back of his car, narrowing the angle on the dark clad figure he spotted crouching in the shadowy space between the garage and the house as he and Abby arrived. The fear in his chest sent his heart pounding mercilessly against his ribs, but it was not so much fear for himself. It was fear for Abby and their babies. He also felt a burst of anger at whoever had come to their house uninvited. He paused briefly, believing that if Gibbs was home Abby would have reached him by phone and by foot at that point. Hearing no noise from the backyard, he decided he could not wait longer to flush out the intruder as it appeared he was on his own. McGee put his hand on his weapon in preparation for pulling it when the invader rushed out of his hiding spot. Without time to think, McGee released his weapon and dropped his shoulder just like he was taught at FLETC then shoved backward and upward into the oncoming man's chest in an effort to take his assailant off his feet.

What he hit was a solid wall of muscle and bone that barely staggered from the impact. The man grabbed McGee and tried to fling him to the side but found his target too scrappy to be out of the fight so quickly. When McGee resisted by thrusting an elbow against the man's chin, the assailant grabbed McGee from behind and tried to pin his arms only to receive a blow to his lip and nose as McGee snapped his head backwards defensively. As the intruder saw McGee attempt to reach for his weapon, he twisted the agent's wrist away from the gun; however, his concentration on the tactic snapped when he was grabbed around the neck from behind and yanked to the ground. He scrambled to his feet deftly in the deeps shadows of the driveway but was able to see the glint of gun metal in the moonlight as a pistol was raised and leveled at him. He made a step forward in one last hope of fleeing.

Common sense, proper procedure, and basic self-control fled from McGee's mind as he gained his footing again then buried his left fist in the man's cheek, sending his assailant staggering into the ground. The attacker groaned as Gibb's kept his weapon trained on the intruder, who finally held up his hands in surrender. By then, McGee had pulled his weapon as well.

"Fuck, who taught you to hit like that?" the bearded man with the hard eyes complained as he rubbed his sore jaw. "I think your broke my damn tooth."

McGee immediately lower his weapon as he squinted into the darkness. Shock filled his expression as he discerned the face staring back at him.

"Who are you?" Gibbs demanded angrily as he glared and cast a momentary questioning look to his agent who was no longer engaging with his weapon.

"Boss," McGee said as he placed his hand on Gibb's forearm to coax him to lower his gun. "Meet Lt. Commander Carter Scott."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come.


	48. Chapter 48

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Gibbs's House_**

Abby sat in the darkness of the kitchen listening to the quietness of the empty house. The loudest sounds were that of her breathing and her heart beating. Tears welled up in her eyes for reasons she could not fully explain while questions tangoed with worries in her mind. She tensed suddenly, going rigid in her chair and inhaled in a startled way as the backdoor to the house opened.

"Abby?" McGee's called as he sifted through the darkened room to see her vague outline frozen at the table.

"Tim," she gasped, levering herself from her seat and reaching out for him. "What's going on?"

"What are you doing sitting in the dark?" he asked enfolding her into his arms.

"Gibbs sat me in the chair and said don't move," she explained as she held him tightly. "I was following orders."

"Since when do you follow orders?" he wondered.

"They were from Gibbs," she said. "Is everything okay? What just happened? Where is Gibbs?"

He hesitated before answering. He was not entirely sure what had happened. He had discovered what the thought was an intruder. He and Gibbs then apprehended the invader only to discover the trespasser was McGee's friend and the missing SEAL he had searched for unsuccessfully for so long. McGee suspected he broke something in his hand in the process from the sluggish response in his fingers and the steady throb coming from the area. Despite the pain, he was glad—relieved—that who they found near his house was someone he considered a friend.

Gibbs seemed to have other ideas. From the cold, business-like glare in his eyes, he was thinking Scott more along the lines of a foe. McGee was ordered to see to Abby just as Tony arrived by car to take the missing SEAL into custody.

Explaining that to Abby would be difficult as he had not told her about the search for Scott due to the classified and clandestine nature of the investigation. There was also his primary consideration of not giving her any additional reasons to worry. She may have been in good health, but he had read every bit of information she provided to him regarding pregnancies involving twins and the considerations and complications that accompanied multiple births. Additional and undue stress was best avoided.

"Everything's okay," he said. "There was someone lurking near the garage. He's in custody. There's nothing to worry about now."

"Who was it?" she demanded. "What did he want? Was he trying to break in?"

"I can't answer those questions," he said evasively. "Look, I need to go to the office."

"Now?" she asked, breaking from his embrace and fixing him with an incredulous expression. "If someone tried breaking into our house, why isn't the Arlington PD involved? NCIS has no jurisdiction. What's going on? What aren't you telling me?"

McGee sighed. The problem with being married to a forensic scientist who worked directly with Federal investigators daily was her deep and accurate understanding of the legal system. The next hurdles were that her mind operated with strictly logical principles, and she was not easily put off a course of questioning. There was also the issue of her ability to see through inconsistent and blatantly false stories. Lying to Abby was never wise and not something he wanted to do.

Half-truths, however, were required in this instance.

"He's been unofficially identified as a member of the US Navy," McGee said. "Gibbs wants to question him."

Abby narrowed her eyes at him. The darkness prevented a sharp scrutiny of his face. What he said was believable in an outlandish way. Why would someone in the Navy want to break into their house? Sure, she and her husband worked for the civilian investigatory wing of the Navy, but those they investigated rarely took a personal interest in the agents and support personnel who dealt with their cases—at least not to the level of finding their homes and attempting to break into them. Then again, it was possible it was merely a coincidence that their house was targeted for a robbery and it just happened to be from someone in the Navy, but this section of Arlington was an obtuse choice for random crime. The oddity grew further if it was merely a coincidence (and a bad one at that) that the sailor picked the house of people who could easily put him in jail.

"You know more than you're saying," she insisted as there was a tentative knock on the front door followed by the portal opening.

"McGee?" Bishop's voice called out in the darkness. "Abby? Are you here?"

"Yeah," McGee responded as he started to shuffle Abby toward the front door. "We're coming."

"I'm ready when you are," the agent said as they approached.

"Ready for what?" Abby asked.

"To drive you to my place," Bishop replied. "You're bunking with me tonight, aren't you?"

Abby turned and shot an accusing glare at her spouse as she prepared to dig her heels in to get some answers.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Observation Room_**

Tony looked sternly through the glass into the interrogation room. Carter Scott sat on the other side eerily still in his chair, much as he had for the previous few hours. Scott simply stared forward without fidgeting and without flinching like a scruffy mannequin. His wrists were cuffed. Those cuffs were then latched to a waist chain that dropped down to a set of manacles that clasped his ankles.

He was a strapping man, nearly 6' 5", with the musculature to match. His hair, like his short-trimmed beard, was strawberry blond. His pale eyes looked lifeless behind the many sun-baked creases earned from spending hours in hot climates squinting into high powered scopes. One word came to Tony's mind as he looked into those unfeeling eyes: predator.

Tony had met several of McGee's friends in his time. All surprised him and each for a different reason. His geek buddies from MIT were quintessential nerds, even the one who became a garbage man. This man, however, was different. He was a trained killer. Unrepentant and unyielding.

And Tony wanted him dead.

It was a strange sensation, wanting to do harm to a perfect stranger, but if what he knew about the man was true then his feeling was justified.

Scott was an American ninja gone rogue, gone bad. He was their most likely suspect in the murder of Pamela Reeves. He was a sniper apparently in the region and with some sort of connection to the dead woman. Whoever killed her waited until she was a breath away from telling NCIS everything she knew; and whoever that was fired at her when Tony and his partner were within inches of her.

There was also the matter of Kyle Renner, a suspected homicide. He, too, was involved in the case that tangentially involved Scott, Renner, Reeves and McGee. There were still too many holes in the stories to formulate solid theories for any of the deaths, but there were two men near the center of them all, Scott and McGee—and Tony knew which of them was them Boy Scout in this tangled web.

"Want me to step in there and try again?" Tony asked as he heard the door open behind him and assumed it was Gibbs returning.

They had both tried talking to the SEAL without any success since putting him in the room. He was a pillar of marble. He would not make eye contact. He would not respond to any inquiry. He didn't even reach for the bottle of water they placed in front of him. His eyelids did not droop. His posture did not falter.

The man was a machine—a deadly one with a few crossed wires it seemed.

"What has he said?" McGee asked entering the room and looking with worry at his friend on the other side of the glass.

"Whoa," Tony shook his head and held up his hands. "What are you doing here?"

"Asking what's going on," McGee said anxiously. "Did Gibbs talk to him yet? What's happening?"

Tony held up his hands to halt the questions and point McGee to the door. He hadn't been given orders to keep McGee away, but common sense said that was the wise course of action. Besides, McGee had other concerns that evening.

"Nothing that involves you," Tony said. "Go home."

"Yeah, right," McGee said stepping around Tony as he approached the window. "What's he said?"

"Nothing," Tony replied. "Now, leave this to us."

"Where's Gibbs?" McGee asked, surprised he was not in the room getting some answers from his friend that would make sense of the craziness and refute the outlandish theories now being offered about the recently-found SEAL.

"Boss is talking to Vance and seeing about keeping Lt. Commander Scott in our custody for the time being," Tony replied. "Technically, he's only AWOL, but we have other questions and concerns not the least of which is whatever he was planning to do tonight. Now, leave this to us and go home."

"There's a host of techs going over every inch of my house for… who knows what," McGee said hotly.

"Exactly," Tony said. "The place was clean this morning, but who knows what the night stalker in there did while you were gone."

McGee seethed as he glared at Tony. The look wasn't anger pointed at his partner so much as frustration for the unexpected turn his evening took.

"Where's Abby?" Tony asked figuring that dealing with this sort of agitation in McGee was both her job and her forte.

"She's staying with Ellie tonight," McGee said.

"Why aren't you with her?" Tony asked.

"Because it's after midnight and the team isn't done with our home," McGee began. "And… you know… whatever."

"And whatever?" Tony prompted as McGee sighed and his shoulders slumped. "What does that mean?"

"She's mad at me," he revealed. "She thinks I lied to her. I didn't. Not exactly. I just… didn't tell her the truth—not all of it."

Tony winced at the statement. McGee was smart in so many things—including Abby operating skills (not an easy discipline to master); how he could do something so idiotic and preventable was beyond Tony.

"Why?" he gaped as he grabbed McGee by the shoulders. "What is wrong with you?"

McGee sighed and gave Tony the same rationale he gave himself when he opted not to tell his wife everything: It was for the greater good. First of all, she wasn't a part of the investigation. He wasn't sharing information outside of the small knot of Gibbs's team. Next, he wasn't fully sure what was going on anyway so a lot of what he said might have been incorrect speculation. Finally, and certainly not the least of which, was her condition. Giving her more reasons to worry was not what he was supposed to do as her spouse.

"You idiot," Tony groaned as he shook his head feeling pity for his partner. "So she busted you on that load of crap?"

McGee shrugged. She didn't say much. She told him she knew he was hiding things and gave him a chance to come clean. When he refused, she told Ellie she was ready to leave, abandoning McGee in Gibbs's house with a cold and disappointed look.

"Tim, her house, her sanctuary away from her lab, is being treated like a crime scene," Tony said. "You sent her scurrying through backyards to call Gibbs in as backup, but you expected her to just be like ' _Okay Timmy, that's fine; I don't need to know anything so I'll just go sleep like nothing happened_ '? What's the matter with you?"

He cuffed McGee on the back of the head and saw him flinch in a more exaggerated way than expected. McGee clenched his jaw as he glared back.

"Stop that," he scowled as he rubbed the tender spot where he hit Scott during their altercation. "I get it. It was stupid. She's upset about whatever happened. Well, I'm not happy about it either."

"Then drive to Ellie's right now and go talk to her," Tony said. "I highly doubt she's sleeping soundly. Go tell her you're sorry. Tell her whatever it is that you do know then kiss and make up. Little Anthony and his sister Toni don't like it when Mommy and Daddy fight."

"Those aren't their names," McGee grumbled as he returned his gaze to Scott, who had not moved a centimeter. "And I don't need a marriage counselor or relationship advice from you."

In truth, he did want to go to her. He wanted to apologize. He was mad at himself for being so obstinate in telling her anything. It was worry, plain and simple, that made him clam up as much as his stupidity. In retrospect, he could see half a dozen points in recent memory that should have told him to look deeper for answers, to follow his gut, and to take steps to protect his family. Fighting with Abby that evening was just a culmination of their joint frustrations and fears. By the time the sun was up, he was certain both would be in a better frame of mind. He might also have a few answers that would settle his own mind and that he might be able to tell Abby.

"I'll talk to Abby later," McGee said. "Right now, I want to know about Carter."

Tony sighed and shook his head, holding his ground as he stepped in front of McGee to make his point.

"That's just not going to happen," he said. "In my opinion, your buddy has lost touch with reality. He has gone around the bend and isn't looking back. I'm talking cuckoo for Coco Puffs. He gone all statue on us. Boss can't even get him to twitch. Right now, Gibbs's talking to Vance about keeping him. If we get that permission, your friend is going to be fitted with a nice white jacket with the buckles in the back to spend some time in a padded room."

McGee looked devastated at the thought. Certainly going AWOL for a year and showing up outside his house on the day that evidence of electronic monitoring devices were discovered seemed a little suspect, but that hardly merited institutionalization for evaluation. Perhaps being nonresponsive was a bit concerning as well, but shipping him off didn't seem to be in his best interest either, McGee argued.

"We don't know what's in his best interest," Tony said. "We don't know anything because he won't talk. He won't even acknowledge that he understands his rights so it makes it hard to question him with a lot of confidence that he understands what we're saying."

"He didn't waive his right to an attorney?" McGee asked.

"He didn't even wave his hand," Tony scoffed. "What part of nonresponsive didn't you understand? It's like there's no one home, McGee."

McGee then nodded, as if reaching some inner decision. Tony recognized the look—it was the one he got when he had figured out something, found a missing piece to a puzzle. Tony didn't understand it in this context and was about to ask when McGee suddenly turned and left the room without another word.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Gibbs leaned on his desk. His neck and shoulders ached from a rotten plane ride following by too much woodworking and (apparently) not enough Bourbon. He looked bleary-eyed at his watch to determine he had been awake for 27 hours straight and had not nearly enough coffee to make that sound like a good thing.

Their guest in the interrogation room was nearing his 10th hour of resisting any interaction with reality. Whether that was a sign of psychosis or evidence that his SEAL training was extremely effective, Gibbs did not know. The second option was actually the worst case scenario. It would mean that Scott had determined Gibbs was the enemy and had gone into the first step of his intensive SERE training: survival. After that, all that was left for him was evade, resist, and escape.

"Oh, Mr. Gibbs, that doesn't look like a chipper face for such a lovely Sunday morning," M. Allison Hart observed as she approached Gibbs's desk.

She was dressed casually but carried her leather attaché case as she confidently flipped her hair over her shoulder. She smiled pleasantly at Gibbs in the way that he never fully trusted.

"Miss Hart," he blinked feeling a rush of reactions from surprise to suspicion. "Why are you here?"

The last time he saw her, she agreed to bury a report that should have put him in prison. In that moment, he knew she understood the greater good of his actions and how she could play a role in justice that did not need to follow every last rule in the book. Seeing her again so many years later, so unexpectedly, took him aback for a moment.

"I am here to confer with my client," she smiled. "I understand you were thoughtful enough to read him his rights and let him spend the night in your cozy accommodations."

"If you mean Lt. Commander Carter Scott, he hasn't asked for a lawyer," Gibbs said. "He hasn't said a thing."

"I know," she nodded. "But that doesn't change the fact that I have been engaged to represent him in this matter and all matters involving him with NCIS, the Navy and any other governmental entity for the time being."

"How?" Gibbs asked. "Who called you?"

"I am not at liberty to tell you nor am I required," she reminded him with her superior grin. "Lt. Commander Carter's proxy contacted me. I would like to see my client now."

"I can't allow that," Gibbs said. "Allison, we don't know what this guy is. If he's crazy or just crazy good at what he does. Until I get him in front of a shrink, no one goes near him except…"

"Me," she said and handed him a piece of paper.

Gibbs took it and squinted to read the court order suspending NCIS from having Scott examined by anyone without judicial approval. Further, it prevented anyone from the agency from talking to him until he had conferred with his attorney, who had the seal of the court making her his recognized representative. Gibbs dropped the page on his desk as he glared at her.

"So, care to escort me to see him now?" she asked lightly.

"No," he growled as he stalked out of the room. "You wait here."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

McGee stood in front of the window looking at his friend as a million questions and worries tore through his mind.

Where had he been? Why did he go AWOL? What was he doing at McGee's home that night? What secret had he been keeping about the Tiger Cruise nearly all their lives?

He pulled his eyes away when he heard the door open. He looked over his shoulder to see Gibbs storming at him with a raging expression.

"What the hell did you do?" he demanded.

"Boss, I can explain," McGee began.

"You're damn right you're going to explain," Gibbs seethed. "Allison Hart? You got her out of bed on a Sunday morning so she could wake up a judge and ruin any chance we might have to get answers. I should have asked this last night: Did you hit your head harder than I realized? What were you thinking? And what gave you the right to get her involved?"

McGee swallowed. What gave him the right was a long story, too long to fully tell, but the short version was this: family. Scott was his friend. Regardless of what anyone thought at that moment, McGee refused to believe his friend was at his home to do him harm. Further, he did not believe he was the trigger man behind Reeves's murder. He had his doubts previously, but after sitting in the darkened room through the early dawn hours watching him, McGee settled his mind on two things: His friend was not a murderer, and he was not out of touch with reality. He might be ailing from some level of post-traumatic stress, but he wasn't crazy. Not the irrecoverable kind.

"Per DoD Instruction 1300.18 and US Navy Regulation 1770-010, any serving military personnel deemed incapacitated can have all medical and legal decisions made by his primary next of kin, or P.N.O.K., until such time as qualified medical personnel deem the individual competent to make his own decisions," McGee recited. "Determination of the PNOK is based on the Record of Emergency Data on DD Form 93."

Gibbs clenched his jaw as McGee quoted the regulations, undoubtedly to the very letter of the requirement. Without asking, Gibbs was certain whose name was on the DD-93 for Scott.

"That's the how," he said coldly. "Now, the why, McGee. You know something you're not telling me?"

"Yes, Boss," McGee nodded. "Carter didn't do anything wrong. He's not dangerous—not in the way you think."

"Why not let a professional make that call?" he asked.

"I don't trust anyone else right now," McGee said.

Gibbs hardened his stare. A few years ago, that alone would have made his agent crumble. Now, however, he just sported a look of regret for disappointing his boss. There was no chance Gibbs could use his normal stares and gruff demeanor alone to roll back the clock on this fiasco.

"I want the truth," Gibbs said sternly. "That guy knows some of it. You're getting in my way of finding it."

"No," McGee shook his head vigorously. "I'm opening the door for you to get it. Boss, I don't want someone else trying to talk to Carter. I want you to do it. It's the doctors and other specialists I don't trust. I think this is the only way."

Gibbs shook his head and offered his agent a look of frustration and pity. It was as if he had opted to forget every rule about lawyers that Gibbs taught.

"Rule 51 applies to you, too," Gibbs offered.

McGee looked down, knowing that rule quite well and believing in both its power and virtue.

"I know," he replied solemnly. "Boss, I didn't get Miss Hart involved to hide anything. I arranged for her represent Carter because it's what's best for him and for us. I know she can be… adamant. But he needs legal help right now and she'll see that he gets it. We need help, too, and the only one who can give that to us is Carter."

"He's not going to talk to us," Gibbs charged. "She's not going to let him."

"No," McGee shook his head. "She can't stop him."

"I'm back to wondering about your head, McGee," he said tersely as he leaned in and snarled.

"I know Carter," McGee insisted. "Boss, if you're ever going to trust me when it comes to interrogation, let it be now. I know what I'm doing. Carter is not what you think. He needs her to protect him from the stuff he doesn't care about but should, but she won't stop him from talking to me—she can't."

Gibbs scoffed and shook his head. A call to Ducky seemed in order to have McGee checked. Gibbs knew his agent had words with his wife then left her to the company of Bishop all night so he could play matchmaker for a suspect and the most evasive lawyer in the District; after that, he sat in the observation room staring at his friend like an animal in the zoo the rest of the time. Mild concussion, sleep deprivation, wishful thinking—whatever it was, the agent needed a wakeup call.

"You're not going on there," Gibbs said. "Even if his lawyer gave permission, I wouldn't. You're mixed in this case somehow—against your will and without your knowledge, but you're in the eye of this hurricane. I can't let you question him."

"You don't have to," McGee insisted. "Boss, I know I can't be part of this, but I also know that Carter has stonewalled you all night and that's what he'll continue to do until I talk to him. I know that probably makes no make sense, but that's because you don't know him. Whatever is going on, he'll have a good reason and he'll tell you if he knows he can trust you. There's too much we don't know right now, but he's got answers for us and he wants to tell us. He just has to know that it's okay to do that. Trust me, Boss. Carter's no criminal."

Gibbs sighed and shook his head as he kept his voice steady and low and filled in some details McGee did not yet have about his friend and his apprehension.

"Tim, he had a knife and a gun on him when Tony searched him," Gibbs said. "Your _friend_ went to your house armed and was hiding in the shadows waiting for you to go inside. What usually happens in a situation like that?"

McGee shook his head as he argued. It was a coincidence, a misunderstanding. It wasn't what it looked like.

"See that swelling under his eye?" Gibbs remarked as he pointed at the glass. "That's where you hit him, Tim, hard—hard enough to break that knuckle you need to go get x-rayed. Now, why did you strike him again? What did you think the intruder at your home—the home you share with your pregnant wife—was doing there? What was going through your mind when you decided to assault him? What did your gut tell you?"

McGee looked down and wiggled the fingers on his left hand… or tried to. They were stiff and unresponsive. His hand throbbed and was swelling and bruising from the blow he struck. He sighed, acknowledging that he had reacted, abruptly, to the thought that someone was near his family that might harm them.

"That was before I knew who he was," McGee answered.

"You sure you know who he is now?" Gibbs said. "He kept secrets from you for a long time—nearly your whole life. How can you be sure you ever knew him at all?"

McGee looked through the glass again. Scott slouched in the chair. He looked a bit on edge, but nothing about him screamed crazed killer. Then again, McGee admitted, more than a few of the people who fit that bill and ended up in the room beyond also didn't seem to fit the part at first glance.

"My gut," McGee said. "Boss, I do know him. You don't. I'm telling you, Carter is one of the good guys in all this. Maybe he's done some wrong things, but he'd never hurt anyone who…"

"Who what?" Gibbs questioned aggressively feeling his lack of sleep as much as seeing the same on his agent's tired face. "Who didn't deserve it? What gives him the right to be the judge? McGee, that man is a trained killer."

"So are you," McGee reminded him stubbornly although he trembled a bit as he spoke. "It doesn't define who you are or what sort of man you are."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes at his agent. There was no taunt in his words. He wasn't lashing out or being belligerent despite what sounded like fighting words. There was no aggressive tone. It was merely a statement, a deadly accurate one, said to make a point, and said with sincerity as well as a touch of comfort—something only McGee could pull off.

Gibbs stepped back and exhaled slowly as he shook his head.

"I can't let you interrogate him," he said. "Regardless of what you think, right now that man is a suspect in two crimes—the murder of Pamela Reeves and stalking a Federal Agent. He's also a witness in two separate crimes: a murder in Alameda 30 years ago and a drug ring involving Navy ships. You step in there to ask a single question about those, and everything he gives us is tainted. Miss Hart may like that because it makes her job easier, but I'm not here or in the mood to make her job easier."

McGee nodded. He agreed that's the way any lawyer (and possible most judges) would view his participation in the official questioning. However, if Gibbs wanted information from Scott, he was going to need help.

"Carter is a SEAL," McGee said. "You know what it takes for someone to make it through that training and what sort of other training they get once they are part of a platoon. Boss, you're great at this job. No one is better, but do you really think you're going to break him? The law doesn't allow you to use the kind of methods you'd need to get him to tell you anything when he doesn't want to say a word, but I promise that after I talk to him he'll want to talk to you."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. He looked at the relatively cool exterior of his suspect in the interrogation room. If he was even a bit agitated it didn't show. The man certainly wasn't sweating is location of the fact he was in cuffs attached to a waist chain and ankle shackles.

He sighed and opened his phone. He scrolled through the contacts and found Tony's number. He was lurking in the evidence garage now that the crime scene techs had returned from McGee's house relatively empty handed. Gibbs ordered him to escort the lawyer waiting in the squad room to interrogation.

"If she lets you in there to talk to him, what are you going to do?" Gibbs asked.

"What I always do," McGee said plainly and walked out of the room.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Interrogation Room_**

McGee waited in the hallway until Tony approached. Hart walked beside him wearing her enigmatic smile as Tony kept his face rigid and yet confused. He looked carefully at McGee, who took a deep breath.

"I need to talk to him," McGee said to Hart. "You need to be in the room to hear it. The camera and the sound will be on so Gibbs can hear it in observation as well. Carter doesn't have to speak to me, but I can guarantee he won't speak to you until he hears what I have to say."

Hart paused as she considered the statement. It was on par with what the agent told her when he arranged for her to take on the case. Normally, she would not allow this kind of access to a client, particularly one she had not met and whose mental status was in question, but she had worked with (and against) Gibbs's team before and was willing to allow a little slack.

"At the first syllable or gesture I don't like, the discussion ends and you leave the room and all recording devices go off," she said.

McGee nodded. Tony remained standing solidly in the hallway. McGee jerked his head to the side, signaling he could watch and listen from observation. Tony's reply was prompt.

"If Captain America's crazy cousin flips out, you're going to want assistance closer than one door down," he said.

"That won't happen," McGee assured him. "I'm just going to talk to him, then he and Miss Hart are going to want to talk to Gibbs."

Tony scrunched his face in confusion. Gibbs never needed anyone to soften up a suspect or a witness for him. McGee was the one they brought in occasionally when then needed to baffle someone with techno babble, rock them off their heels with a showing of "our geek is smarting than you", or to offer a soft touch so that someone on the fragile side could talk without breaking first. How a SEAL sniper suspected of murder and doing a damn find job of looking like he was planning another that evening fit the bill was a bit hard to swallow for the senior field agent. Also, McGee's naïve demeanor was a bit of a concern. Tony worried he was either deluded about his so-called friend or he had managed to slip one by Gibbs and was going to step into that room to finish pummeling the man he decked in his driveway, something he could accomplish much more easily now that the man was locked up in chains and unable to fight back.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Interrogation Room_**

McGee took a deep breath before walking into the room. As he did, Scott's eyes shifted in a miniscule way in the mirror. His stony expression barely changed when he spied the two people entering the room.

"Carter, this is Miss Hart," McGee said. "She's your lawyer. She's going to represent you in everything that's going on. I have her permission to speak to you."

Scott turned his head slowly to eye the duo. He looked Hart up and down slowly then turned his impassive expression toward the agent then sneered. His posture shifted as he lifted his chin to look squarely at McGee.

"You hit me," he said. "You head butted me, then you punched me."

"You asked for it," McGee shrugged in an unconcerned way. "Besides, you're fine."

"Commander Scott, I recommend you simply listen at this time," Hart said eyeing McGee coolly. "Agent McGee is not to ask you any questions."

"And he hasn't," Scott countered. "He's just talking. Now, it's my turn. I've got some for him. Tim, head and hand. What's the deal?"

McGee looked down as he smirked and fought the urge to look at the two way glass to offer Gibbs his _I told you_ so expression. Instead, he gently rubbed the back of his head with his right hand, feeling a small knot where he collided with Scott's face, then held up his now purple and distended left hand.

"One's fine," he shrugged. "The other doesn't look too pretty."

"You need to have that checked," Scott said. "Looks like the knuckle might be displaced. Seriously, dude, that was a hell of a shot you gave me. Knocked me on my ass."

McGee shrugged. He supposed if Gibbs hadn't just taken the SEAL off his balance a moment prior his punch would not have been so effective.

"Do you need any medical treatment?" McGee asked. "It's standard procedure to ask. I know they asked you earlier, but you pretended to be deaf."

Hart cleared her throat and eyed McGee in warning. He kept his eyes on his friend.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Scott groused. "I'm fine. I'm serious about you getting that hand looked at. You're a lefty, Tim. You need your hand. You good otherwise? You got clipped last year pretty good. You can't mess around with that kind of thing. I didn't want to hurt you, but I know I grabbed you pretty hard. I didn't expect you to fight back so much so if I was kind of rough, I'm sorry."

McGee shrugged off the apology as unnecessary. In truth, he was kind of proud of himself for lasting so long against his muscular and adept friend. Saying that Scott could break him in half was not hyperbole.

"Nothing I couldn't handle," McGee offered.

"I was worried about you last year," Scott confessed, his voice growing sincere and concerned. "Man, I've been to Iraq, Afghanistan and whole shitload of other hellholes on this planet, and I never got hit."

Hart nodded, seeming to understand the flow of the conversation. McGee held out his hand to gesture to the chair beside Scott. Once she was seated, McGee sighed as he walked to the chair opposite the SEAL. He leaned on the back of it rather than sitting.

"Yeah, well, you're a SEAL," McGee shrugged. "I'm pretty sure bullets are afraid of you—just like parking attendants, Saint Bernards, and football players named Ronnie."

Scott's eyes scrunched quickly as his face cinched into a scowl before instantly crushing into mirthful grin followed by a loud, rolling guffaw.

"Oh, man," he laughed as he clapped his cuffed hands. "You kill me when you talk crazy like that. How do you remember that shit? Man, that head of yours is a fucking gem—like a national goddamn treasure. So, give it to me straight, you are okay these days, right?"

McGee grinned, receiving the reaction he expected and trusted. He pulled out the chair and sat down as he regarded his friend with concern.

"I'm fine—never been better," he said. "Look, I can't talk to you about last night or the whole last year. My boss, Special Agent Gibbs, wants to come in here and ask you a lot of questions. Miss Hart is going to talk to you before he does that."

"I don't want a fucking lawyer," Scott said. "I haven't done…"

"Stop," McGee held up his hands before Hart could step in. "You've got a lawyer. She's here, and she's the best I've ever seen. I'm actually a little afraid of her. Now, you can fire her if you want, but you're not stupid so I don't think that'll happen. So, you're going to talk to her in a few minutes. Before you do, I need to know if you're okay."

Scott nodded as he looked at the camera in the corner with the light showing it was on. He leaned to the side and looked behind McGee at the mirror then nodded again.

"They record everything that gets said in here and people can watch from behind the glass unseen, right?" he inquired. McGee nodded. "Navy cops are like real cops, huh?"

"I like to think we're better," McGee shrugged. "Principle is the same. Ask the questions. Get answers. Find the truth."

Scott bobbed his head. He was tired but not exhausted. After months of living holed up in a trashy hotel and staking out various targets, it was something of a relief to be sitting down to (hopefully) talk to someone who might want answers.

"You can't ask me anything?" he wondered. McGee shook his head. "Can I ask you questions?"

"Yeah, I guess," McGee replied and looked to Hart for her acquiescence, which he received with a mild nod of the head. "If I can't answer, I won't."

Scott smiled. He looked at his friend sharply.

"Your wife, Abby, she's the girl you told me about years ago, right?" Scott began. "She's the scientist whose music drives you nuts and that you made a character in your book?"

McGee nodded. Hart grew tense and started to raise her hand to stop the discussion.

"Where is she?" Scott asked.

McGee paused. He could feel Gibbs's stare piercing the back of his neck as much as Hart's cold glare striking him in the face. McGee considered his answer.

"She's not here right now," McGee said. "She had a long day visiting with family yesterday, and then she was a little distraught with all the excitement when we got home. She stayed with a friend last night."

Scott snorted and nodded his apparent understanding. His eyes grew sharply shrewd again.

"I expect I won't get a chance to meet her," Scott said. "That's too bad. I can tell she's got you wrapped around her finger."

McGee shrugged as he smirked easily.

"By choice," McGee assured him. "Obviously, now's not a good time to meet her, but I'll introduce you some other day. I'll give you a little advance warning: She'll have a lot of questions for you. Be kind and just start with the story about Rear Admiral Wright's furniture."

Scott chuckled as he grinned widely and pounded his manacled hands the table.

"The Barcalounger on the tarmac," he laughed. "Man, I forgot we did that. Who was there? You, me, Val, and Tommy, I think. Good times. Fair warning, Tim. I'll tell your wife whatever she wants to know—probably somethings you don't want her to know."

McGee rolled his eyes at the challenge as he drew his phone out of his pocket and pulled up several of his photos.

"I can't imagine there's anything she doesn't know about me yet," McGee offered.

"Val's tooth?" he continued to laugh.

"Told her about that years ago," McGee scoffed as he placed the phone face up on the table to show off a photo. "Since you can't meet her in person, for now this will have to do. That's Abby at our wedding, and this one is a more recent picture."

"Yeah, you've got a baby coming," he remarked looking at the photo. "Congrats. When's the little guy due?"

"She's carrying twins, a boy and girl," McGee corrected him. "They're due in November."

"Look at you, instant family," Scott shook his head appreciatively. "Guess the last thing you need or want is me and my craziness messing up your happy life."

"Commander, that's enough for now," Hart said.

McGee sighed. He knew it would be too close to the line to make any remark. Questions swirled on his head, but he had assured Gibbs he could do this. McGee wanted answers, but he also still believed in his friendship to the naval officer and felt a desire to help him in whatever way he could. He was torn between his unspoken duty to a lifelong friend and his sworn duty to the agency. He considered his options then nodded as he made his choice.

"Agent McGee, I need to confer with my client now," she said.

"He leaves when I say he leaves," Scott said firmly.

"It's okay, Carter," McGee assured him. "I've got to get going anyway."

"I don't trust lawyers," he said as he looked harshly as his. She did not balk but looked at him with a challenging expression in return. "Your boss is a jarhead, right?"

"Retired Marine Gunnery Sergeant," McGee nodded.

Scott smirked, finding humor in his friend's reliance on protocol and proper titles even in a situation like this.

"You trust him?" he asked.

McGee nodded.

"I do, but I've never been interrogated by him or investigated by him," the agent offered. "I've never had to sit in the chair you're sitting in for the reasons you're sitting in it. You might want to ignore your lawyer, but you would be a fool to do that, and you're not a fool."

"I'm not going to lie just because she tells me to," Scott scowled.

Hart bristled at the statement.

"I haven't told you to lie," she said. "I haven't told you anything other than we need to talk. Agent McGee needs to leave, and they need to turn off all their equipment so you and I can speak privately, Commander."

He looked at the trust and sincerity in McGee's face and sighed loudly as he cursed under his breath.

"This is a fucking mess," Scott said.

"It doesn't have to be," McGee said and held up his hand to stop Hart from interrupting. "Miss Hart is here to help you get through this. I can't say that full disclosure when you talk to my boss will help you or your career; it's probably going to do damage, but I don't think you care about that anymore. I think you did whatever you've been up to for the last year because you want someone to listen to you and hear what you have to say. If that's the case, you have the people here with you now who will do that."

Scott looked away for a moment. McGee detected a slight tremor in the man's hands as he kept them folded on the table. His jaw seemed to quiver as he came to some inner understanding.

"Will you be listening behind that mirror when I talk to your boss?" Scott asked in a soft yet wary voice.

"I can be," McGee nodded. "If that's what you want."

Scott shook his head and looked at his friend with misty, haunted eyes.

"There's some truths no one wants to hear and should never hear, Tim," he said quietly as he looked down at the table.

McGee nodded solemnly and tilted his head slightly so he could catch his friend's eye.

"Actually, that's kind of what my job is," he said. "I deal with the stuff most people never want to see or hear, but I won't listen if you don't want me to."

Scott looked up and chewed his lip as he nodded. He took a deep breath and swallowed firmly.

"I want you to go see your wife while I have a chat with my lawyer and your boss," Scott said somberly. "Do me a favor. Tell her about the time we accidentally flooded Commander Oliver's backyard because we wanted to practice sliding into home plate in the mud and how we almost accidentally drown his cat in the process. You have to mention the cat. The story isn't nearly as funny and makes no sense without the cat. You got that? You remember its name?"

"Tickles," McGee said flatly as the man laughed in a sad way as he nodded.

"That's right," Carter said as a genuine smile tugged on the corners of his mouth despite the sorrow building in his eyes. "You have to tell her about you and Tickles."

"I could hate you sometimes," McGee grumbled instantly as his friend laughed, bringing a touch of light back to his deadened eyes. "Fine. I'll tell her about that vicious…"

"Cuddly little friend," Carter smirked before his face grew serious again.

McGee sighed, feeling pang of regret as he looked at his childhood friend restrained in cuffs and holding onto secrets apparently so dangerous and painful he didn't trust McGee to hear them. That alone told McGee what some of them must be.

"You can make it through this, Carter," McGee said sincerely. "If anyone can, it's you."

"Miss Hart, do you hear him giving me the pep talk again?" he smiled. "I work among some of the most talented and bravest bad-asses ever to walk the planet, but do you know who my fucking hero is? This guy here. You know that, right, Tim? That's why I'm sorry, man. I know I've let you down."

"Enough," Hart said stopping the discussion and eyeing her client sternly. "Agent McGee, I need the room."

McGee nodded. As he stood up to leave, he sighed.

"I don't accept your apology because there's no need for it," McGee said. "You didn't let me down, Carter, not yet."

"Make sure you tell your kids that story about Tickles someday," Scott insisted as McGee reached the door. "Tell them about all our good times."

"So they can try doing the same thing for themselves and flood our yard?" McGee wondered.

Scott chuckled and nodded as a sad grin drew on his face.

"You're damn right," he nodded. "It's good when some parts of history repeat themselves."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 **Hallway**

Gibbs stepped out of the observation room as the electronics in the opposite room were turned off. He looked at his agent with understanding but continued reservation.

"He'll talk to you now," McGee said.

"If she lets him," Gibbs reminded him.

"She can't stop him," McGee shook his head. "Boss, he just needed to know it was okay to talk. He didn't fight back when we apprehended him. He tried to flee, but he didn't put up much resistance. He won't now either. He's made up his mind to talk to you."

Gibbs nodded. That tracked with what his gut was telling him based on what he heard in the room while McGee spoke with his friend. The change in the SEAL was miraculous, like someone flipped a switch and infused the stone statute with a personality, a warm and gregarious one that had feelings of compassion. His worry about McGee's welfare after their scuffle and his continuing concerns about his recovery from the previous year spoke loudly about his ability to empathize, which was not generally the case in a coldblooded killer.

"Go get that hand checked out," Gibbs said. "Then go home and get some sleep. I do not want to see you back here today."

"But Boss what if…," McGee began but stopped speaking as Gibbs held up a warning finger.

"You're not part of this, and I said go home," he commanded. "The tech's cleared your house so you can go pick up Abby and bring her home, too."

"So they didn't find anything," McGee guessed feeling confident.

"Two new cameras, McGee," Gibbs said flatly. "One in the area where you spotted him hiding. The other was around the back. He had most of your house covered."

McGee sighed. He looked down, not sure how to convince Gibbs that despite what they found, his friend was not a danger to him. However, it seemed he didn't need to.

What Gibbs heard between the SEAL and his agent during their brief discussion gave him the context he needed to understand the evidence. Scott's protectiveness of McGee was familial, like someone looking out for his kid brother. The question was, why did he feel the need?

"He wasn't stalking you," Gibbs said. "He was watching out for you, keeping his eye on you. Now, I've got to see if he'll tell me why."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come.


	49. Chapter 49

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

McGee reached his desk, yawning and feeling both satisfied and lost at the same time. The feelings of accomplishment faded swiftly as he spied Bishop at her desk. She gave him a stiff look.

"Thanks for letting Abby stay with you last night," McGee said. "The techs didn't find anything, but they didn't finish up until nearly 1 a.m. Luckily, they didn't leave much of a mess."

"I know," Bishop said. "I dropped Abby off a little while ago. I took a look for her, just to reassure her."

McGee hung his head with guilt. He was grateful to Bishop and felt like dirt that she needed to take that action. Worse, he had not been the one to do it. His wife needed reassurance about the safety of their home and he wasn't the one there to give it.

"How is she?" he asked. "Did she sleep at all?"

"Not really," Bishop shook her head. "I think she expected you to call. Were you here all night?"

McGee sighed and shook his head. He explained that he was there most of the night but that he stepped out at one point to arrange counsel for his friend.

"You did what?" Bishop blinked. "He's the reason your life got turned upside down and Abby needed to find another place to sleep last night, but you decided to go get him the best lawyer you could find?"

"It's complicated," McGee replied.

"No, it's not," she shook her head. "McGee, that man is a highly dangerous, highly trained and highly disturbed man."

"No, Ellie," he shook his head. "He's a friend who needs my help."

"What about Abby?" she asked. "You spend half your time worrying about her normally, but this guy shows up and suddenly you can't bother to check in with her? Look, I understand some of what we do we aren't supposed to talk about, but Abby works here with us. If you couldn't give her the nitty gritty details, why didn't you just say it was about an ongoing investigation that you couldn't discuss yet? She would have understood that. Instead, you lied to her. You pretended you didn't know who Carter Scott was. I don't understand that. You stood in this room last fall and gave me a guilt trip for doing the same thing to you. I was wrong when I did that. What made it okay for you to do the same thing?"

McGee winced at her assessment because it was both painful and true.

"Nothing," he shook his head.

In truth, he was tired and that was his leading excuse, lame and completely ineffectual though it was. His next was that he didn't think the previous night was as big of a deal as everyone else. For someone who worried about so many things, he thought that his calmness about this should have steadied the nerves of a few others. Unfortunately, the opposite happened. In the sedate light of the morning, he was starting to see how he had misjudged the intensity and gravity of the previous evening's events. His friends and colleagues had been worried about his and Abby's welfare—rightfully so given the limited facts they knew. McGee realized he had not given their concern enough consideration. Their anger and frustration that day stemmed from genuine feelings of anxiety on his behalf—feelings he never took a moment to consider. That he never gave the slightest thought to how his wife, whose emotions were like tidal waves lately, might react and that he essentially discounted her worries without a single thought seemed wantonly self-centered to him (the kind of behavior he would expect more from his sister).

"I'll apologize to her," he vowed.

"It's not about being sorry," Bishop said, removing the sharp tone from her voice. She could see the fatigue on his face and hear the regret in his voice. "What is going on? I'm involved in the case and even I don't understand what happened. Tony said this man went to your house with weapons and was lurking in the shadows when you got home."

He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, feeling the bite of pain from the swollen knuckle on his hand. He looked and saw his ring finger was turning blue was well. With a painful twist, he pulled off his wedding ring rather than leave it swelling and need the ring cut off. As he shoved the band in his pocket, he sighed because he did not have the full story either. Gibbs and Tony were getting that. What he did know, however, was important.

"I don't know why Carter did that, but he was watching my house," McGee said. "He was never going to hurt me or Abby. I can see now why it looks like something else to all of you, but he was being protective in his own way. What he was protecting against, I don't quite know yet. It might be nothing."

"You mean it might be all in his head," she suggested.

McGee opened his mouth to disagree but found he could not. Certainly his friend was something of a wild lunatic—he was a SEAL after all—but even McGee knew walking about from a promising career for no reason was a red flag. Worrying about some mysterious danger facing a friend was a starting explanation, but it did not address why the man never contacted McGee to voice those concerns or why he never turned to anyone else he did trust. He might not know anyone else in NCIS, but Scott was nearly a 20-year veteran of the Navy. He had people he could trust; that he turned to no one did speak of a paranoia that was beyond simple, rational caution.

McGee had to admit to himself that the reason he got Hart to take the case was because he was not certain his friend was playing with a full deck at the moment. The whole reason McGee was able to hire the attorney at all was by invoking a regulatory clause that all but screamed his friend was, a Tony said, a bit nuts.

"All I can say is that as soon as I recognized him last night, a lot of things bothering me made sense," McGee explained. "The GPS tracker he placed on my car was making my phone cutout out. The feeling I was being watched was apparently real. All the times someone was checking the utilities across the street wasn't a coincidence. All of that was Carter. I can't tell you why he didn't come forward. That actually worries me a lot, but I think it has to do with what happened to me last year. Carter seems way too concerned about my welfare right now. He looked out for me when we were kids, but he was never like this. I don't know if he's alright or not. I don't know if what worried him about my safety is real, but I know he believes it."

Bishop nodded. It was a little crazy, but not the most insane thing she'd ever heard in that big orange room. The crazy part, she said, was that McGee didn't bother to explain any of that to Abby.

"I know; that was stupid," he admitted. "Once I knew it was Carter at the house, my mind just said there was no trouble for us so all my worries were on Carter. I didn't think about how it looked or must have seemed to Abby. I just told her everything was find and I thought that would be enough."

Bishop shook her head at his misguided decision. She pitied him a bit. He hadn't given a second thought to doing what he thought was the right thing: stepping in to help a friend. He had just assumed that Abby didn't have worries of her own because his had ceased. Unfortunately, he forgot that he had not shared any vital or calm-instilling details with her. Instead, after sending her from her home with fears of safety for her family, he cut her loose without another word and failed to see the colossal mystery she spent the night trying to solve without so much as a text message from him.

"You should have called her," Bishop informed him.

"I know," McGee replied. "I'll do that now."

"No, better not," she shook her head. "She was going to get some sleep. She's extremely tired. I'm not saying that to guilt you or worry you. I'm just saying that as her friend and yours. Let her take a nap. She needs the sleep—you do, too, by the way. No good will come of you two getting into a fight just because you're both exhausted."

McGee nodded accepting the advice and changing his decision to run out for coffee (in flagrant violation of Abby's request to skip on caffeine for as long as she wasn't able to have any). Instead, he wandered back to his desk and simply put his head down as the Sunday morning sun shone down through the skylight.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Interrogation Room_**

Gibbs was allowed entry to the room as Hart granted permission for him to speak with Scott. Tony followed, lurking against the wall with his arms folded and his mind still made up about the guy.

"You're Tim's friend, right?" Scott nodded to the senior field agent. "You're Tony, his partner?"

Tony nodded.

"I heard that you're a funny guy," Scott said. "It's a good thing you're his friend or I'd have to kick your ass."

"That so?" Tony remarked. "You think he needs a bodyguard? From who? You?

"I'd never hurt Tim," Scott said. "He's the closest thing I ever had to family. And I'm not his bodyguard. He can take care of himself. Hell, he saved my life. Then I screwed up and he got hurt."

Hart sat forward and interjected.

"That is not an admission of guilt of any kind," she said. "Commander Scott feels sorrow over the injuries Agent McGee sustained last year as a result of a conspiracy the Commander uncovered but did not fully comprehend until after Agent McGee was in the hospital."

Gibbs offered her a sour look that asked for the lawyering to take a backseat so he could have a conversation. He already knew Scott was not involved in the Afghanistan shooting. What he needed to know was how much the man knew about all the other tentacles from that case

"I'm just saying that I owe him for everything he did for me," Scott offered.

"Like what?" Tony scoffed. "Help you pass algebra?"

Tony smirked as he asked the question but saw a darkness in the man's wild eyes.

"Actually, he did," Scott said. "And before that, he taught me how to read properly. I got bounced around at lot, between my two parents, until I was 10. I never was real consistent with school, but Tim had a way of explaining my school work so I could understand."

Tony scoffed. It was believable and commendable, but it was hardly lifesaving actions.

"Oh yeah," Scott added seeing the doubt in his eyes, "and when I was going to commit suicide, Tim stopped me and then talked me out of trying it again. I survived school and my own personal fucking nightmare because of him. So, like I said, I owe him."

Gibbs took that opportunity to slide in his first question.

"Then what were you doing lurking outside his house carrying weapons?" he asked.

As expected, Scott explained his surveillance activity. He claimed he was watching to make sure no one else tried to hurt McGee the way he was hurt overseas. His appearance at the house the previous night was to install new equipment as he figured the old was too compromised by a harsh winter.

"What did you mean when you said you were responsible for what happened to him last year?" Gibbs asked.

Scott looked at Hart who nodded once encouragingly.

"In April, I was injured in an accident while on leave," he explained. "While receiving treatment, I had a reaction to one of the painkillers they gave me. I… There are things I trained myself to forget, but they came back. See, just before I got hurt, a buddy of mine tipped me off to something and… I'll give you his name. He's retired and he's in a country that we don't have extradition with. He hasn't done anything wrong as far as I know, but he knows things. The guy he works for knows things."

Gibbs nodded and moved slowly.

"Things about Navy ships hauling heroine and black market morphine out of Afghanistan?" he asked.

Scott nodded. He added cocaine to the list and Colombia as a source point as well.

"One of the men he said was involved was someone I know—too well," Scott said as his face took on a green tinge. "Tim said I can trust you—that you all see shit that shouldn't ever happen and sometimes you can put it right. Well, what happened to me, you can't fix it, but you need to stop him. I don't want to tell anyone this, but I can't let him hurt anyone else. I made myself forget for 30 years, but now… There's a story I heard that says he's done it to one of those Syrian refugees. It has to stop."

Tony dropped his arms as he saw Scott lower his eyes to his shackled hands. His shoulders began to shake and tears began flowing down his cheeks and soaking his beard. The agent had wondered why the light was on in the observation room making it completely visible. The only other person there was the tech observing and maintaining the recordings. Now, as Tony recognized the expression on the SEAL's face he understood. Scott wanted to make sure McGee never heard what he had to say. And what he was about to say, Tony already knew.

He knew it all too well because he had interviewed too many women, children (and yeah, even a few men) whose mind, soul, and body were violated by that sort of evil and depravity.

"Tell me," Gibbs said plainly without pity or doubt in his voice. "From the beginning. You were 10."

"I was 10," Scott agreed in a distant voice. "I went on a Tiger Cruise. Tim got to go, too. We got into things, places we shouldn't, on the ship. His father was a captain and the crew were afraid of the bastard so they didn't really stop us or pay much attention to us. We were hiding from the rest of the group down near the laundry when I heard something arguing. See, we were in this overhead space with vents. I looked down and I saw a man stab another one, right in the chest. He pulled that knife out and the blood came right up to us. I was scared shitless so I grabbed Tim and hauled him out of the crawlspace. I pushed him through the door, told him to run."

"Did he say anything to you?" Gibbs asked.

Scott shook his head and chuckled sorrowfully.

"He said _ow_ ," he replied. "He clipped his leg on the knee knockers. It cut him pretty good, but I grabbed him and said run. I knew we were being following."

"By whom?" Gibbs asked. "The man who stabbed the other guy?"

Scott nodded. He wiped his nose on his shoulder as he began to twitch in his seat like a little kid waiting for punishment.

"Did you recognize the guy doing the stabbing or the man he stabbed?" Gibbs asked.

Scott half shrugged and half nodded. Gibbs pushed a bit more, asking for details and descriptions. What he got was predictable. General, hazy memories on body type and skin color for both. He did get a concrete answer on the aggressor's rank at the time. Gibbs sought the name again, but got a more chronological telling.

"We got to the deck and kept running," he said, his eyes focused on a day far in the past. "Everyone was at the far end for a ceremony. I don't know how he caught up to us, but he did. He grabbed a hold of me and I fell. We were closer to the edge than I realized. As I fell, I clipped Tim's heel and…. He fell and skidded over the edge."

Tony winced at the revelation, finally understanding his partner's unexplained aversion to heights and boats. He watched as Scott choked on a sob. His shoulders curled inward and he fought to control his breathing. After a moment, he took a steadying breath and recovered.

"Tim grabbed something and held on until he got hauled up," Scott said. "I yanked on his sweatshirt with everything I had, but it was… the Lieutenant who actually pulled him up. I was trying to pull Tim away from him. I knew I had to protect him."

"What was the Lieutenant's name?" Gibbs asked again.

"Porter," Scott replied in a small voice. "Paul Porter, now Rear Admiral Porter. And to think, I thought that day couldn't get any worse."

He went on to explain McGee's asthma attack, the trip to the infirmary, and Scott's refusal to take his eyes off his friend while Porter was around. He recalled the doctor conferring briefly with Porter in the hall while McGee quietly wept on the bed clutching his profusely bleeding knee and gasping for breath. When the doctor returned, he gave the patient a shot that dropped him instantly. He lay listless on the bed while he sewed up the cut. Porter then carried the boy out of the room and ordered Scott to follow.

He took the two boys off the boat and to his car.

"I was scared for both of us," he admitted. "It was creepy. I'd seen him stab a man and now he was being all gentle putting Tim in the back seat and brushing his bangs out of his face. He made me sit in the front with him. We went… to his house."

"The McGee house?" Gibbs asked.

"No," Scott said painfully. "Porter's. He… he left Tim in the car. I didn't want to leave him there, but he said I needed to let him sleep. Then he… He… He made me go into his house with him."

His story from there was predictable and sickening. Scott recalled being brought inside and sitting on the couch beside the man. He gave him something to drink that tasted awful and made his head fuzzy. He recalled with a vile shiver the way Porter brushed his hair, much the way he did Tim's as he put him in the car.

"He said we were beautiful," Scott recalled in a sterile yet horrified way. "He said he loved us; that he had watched us on the cruise and thought we were funny—the trouble we were causing—and he was sorry he had to yell at us on the boat. I said I wanted to go home and that Tim needed to go home, too. He promised he would take us, but that… He wanted to play a game first."

Tony's stomach turned at the description of the game. He'd heard many versions of the perversion and it never ceased to make his flesh crawl or make him want to vomit. Scott was shaking visibly as he disclosed the molestation followed by the threats of harm to him and his friend if he ever told anyone.

"Did he touch Tim?" Gibbs asked.

Tony noted the slightest hint of tension in Gibbs's voice as he did so.

"No, he said I should feel lucky because Tim was too special for the game, but that was special too in my own way," Scott replied with something of a victorious smile. "I didn't fully understand, but I figured he wanted to do to Tim what he did to me, but for some reason he didn't dare. He said something about Tim being too precious and that his father was too important but that my father would never care. You know, I never liked Tim's dad before that moment, but right then, everything about him that scared me made me feel better, for Tim anyway, and I wished to god he was my father. That's probably the only time anyone ever said that about John McGee.

"That bastard was so afraid of Tim's father that he didn't dare touch his son," Scott continued with a dangerous and vicious smile. "After that, he'd just look at Tim and have his sick thoughts. He'd pet his hair if he got the chance to be close enough, but he wouldn't do another goddamn thing to him. That day, I decided that I was going to be an intimidating bastard when I grew up, a hole fucking terror like John McGee, so I could scare sonsabitches like Porter into being afraid of me."

Gibbs let the man calm himself. He paused for a respectable few minutes.

"Did he bring you home first?" he asked.

"No," he replied. "He took Tim home. He was starting to wake up in the car. Tim's grandmother was at their house. She came running out to the car when she saw Porter carrying Tim. I heard him tell her that Tim had an asthma attack and cut his knee and that the meds made him sleepy. She took him inside. Then… Porter brought me home… eventually."

There was more fondling that happened in the car followed by additional threats. Porter even said he was going to tell NIS what Scott had done on the ship and get both of his parents thrown out of the Navy if he told anyone about anything that happened. He said no one would believe that he saw anything in that store room so there was no point in telling anyone that tale.

"I didn't see Tim for a week after that," the SEAL said. "He was out of school sick. Our teacher, Mrs. Turner, asked me to bring him his school work on Friday. Fucking weirdo that he is, he was happy to get it. So, when I saw him, he asked me how he cut his knee. He didn't remember any of it really. I was… I was glad. I told him… I told him a story that left out… stuff. He was so trusting. He believe me. I remember thinking if he believes it, maybe I can, too. So I did. I made myself believe it never happened."

He broke into sobs again. His pain and shame were still fresh, having been buried most of his life. He lived in fear of Porter for a long while, but as the weeks and months passed, his thoughts turned more to a need to protect his friend at all times, at all costs.

"You say you repressed this memory until your accident last spring?" Tony asked, a lot less doubt in his voice that he would have had from the start.

"I can get you an affidavit from the doctor who treated him in Dubai," Hart said. "He can confirm what Commander Scott said while under the influence of the painkillers. What happened to Commander Scott is the foundation for his actions in protecting Agent McGee by setting up benign viewing devices in public areas in the vicinity of his home."

Gibbs smirked at her equivocating answers. She was already setting up her deals should JAG start talking about raising charges for the intrusion.

"Why now?" Gibbs asked. "You just remembered what happened to you as a child, but you said Porter never touched McGee. Did you think he was going to do that now?"

"No, not Porter," Scott shook his head. "He's not the one. Tim got shot because of him, but he didn't set it up. Don't you get it? Porter's got his fascination with Tim. He's… the forbidden fruit. He's the golden child he never got to screw and his partners know it."

Tony shot a look to Gibbs, who did not tear his eyes away. He kept his gaze flat and his voice even.

"What partners?" he asked.

"The fucking drug dealers who own Porter's ass," Scott said. "I confronted him about the drugs and what he did to me last spring. I said I was going to call Tim since he was NCIS now and tell him everything. I got the feeling I was in trouble that night. By the next morning, I knew I needed to disappear. I was being followed."

Gibbs considered the statement. It was possible, but there was also the chance it was just an emotional reaction from Scott starting to face his horrible memories. Still, if he made the threat and Porter passed it on to others in the ring, then Scott might not have been imagining things. After all, if Porter was trying to save his neck and reputation, he would turn to his partners for help. It tracked that they then decided to eliminate two problems: Scott, who had the knowledge, and McGee, who might be the recipient of the information and in a position to act on it.

"So you're saying Porter's counterparts put out a hit on both of you?" Tony asked. "They wanted to kill you to stop the information from getting out. If they got you before you got to McGee, what would be the point of killing him?"

Scott looked at Tony with a revolted expression, one Tony now realized was all about Porter and not about being questioned.

"They wanted to punish Porter, too," Scott said. "He blubbered to me that they blackmail him into helping them because they know about him and his boy toys. He said if I said anything, especially to Tim, that they would kill him to hurt Porter. Look, the guy diddles with little boys all the time, but it's like they're all just a substitute for the one kid he got infatuated with years ago: Tim. I know this is an investigation, but you can't tell this to Tim. He's never known any of this. He doesn't need to know, right? You can just bust Porter for the other stuff he's done, the other kids he's hurt."

Gibbs sighed and said nothing as he continued to wrap his head around these details. His greater concern than McGee finding out he was the object of twist adoration from a friend of his father was on how that nearly got the agent killed. If Porter suspected what his partners might be doing and where McGee would be, then it made sense that the admiral would not be onboard with the plan to elimination the agent. If Porter knew McGee was in trouble, he would try to save him. All evidence seemed to indicate that's why he tried. First, he tried to pull McGee out of Afghanistan to be on the ship. Next, he had a contingency plan of having his top surgeon with him on board. Finally, he took the extra measure of having his ex-wife (one of the best in her field) take McGee's case in Baltimore.

Scott sat in his chair feeling and looking beaten in a way no training session or mission ever accomplished. His head was heavy. His limbs were sluggish. His tongue was done talking.

"I think my client has earned a break," Hart said.

Gibbs nodded and said he was arranging for protective custody at an NCIS safe house. He would assign agents within the hour and get Scott to his lodgings soon after that.

"He'll probably find all this out," Scott said looking at Tony with a desperate expression.

"Porter?" he asked.

"Tim," Scott shook his head.

Tony sighed and legitimately felt sorry for the guy even if he didn't fully trust him not to snap, especially after what he had just disclosed.

"He wouldn't blame you or think of you any differently," Tony said sincerely. "That's just not who McGee is."

"I know," Scott replied. "He'd blame himself. I don't want him to do that. The only reason I got through any of that, and a lot of crap that came afterward, was because of Tim. I don't ever want him to feel like he let me down because he didn't. Not even today. He had every reason, but he didn't."

Gibbs stood up and told Hart that they would have an escort detail available soon. He left the lawyer and her client in the room as he and Tony stepped into the hall. Tony exhaled loudly as he ran his hands through his hair and stretched his neck and shoulders.

He hated rape and molestation cases more than he hated drug dealing—and there was nearly nothing he hated more than drug dealing. He looked questioningly at Gibbs.

"So it was just luck that McGee found out about the security problem at the base?" Tony asked, finding that a bit too convenient. "Hell of a lucky thing they knew he was even in Afghanistan."

"They set him up," Gibbs said. "They let us find the breach and knew we'd send in one of our computer experts. Only one of them is a field agent."

Tony nodded. That made sense, but it also made him sick because it meant they had knowledge from within NCIS—well placed knowledge. Another mole, he thought as he closed his eyes.

"Once they got it confirmed he was there, they let him find the issue with that hard drive by not swapping it out," Gibbs guessed.

"They did it to keep him there longer so they could arrange the hit," Tony remarked.

"They never expected him to survive," Gibbs said as he started down the hall. "They also didn't realize he stumbled onto their whole set up two days earlier and shipped the evidence to us. From what we found in Deshu, they still don't know."

Tony then grinned widely.

"They still don't know," he repeated with a lightened expression as he followed his boss. "We're actually ahead of them; we just didn't know it until now."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

The rest of the day was a grind. Gibbs got the protective detail in place and arranged for Agent Balboa and his team to watch over Scott, while arranging to keep his identity a secret (by not booking him in at all and releasing him from NCIS custody). A quick consult with Ducky and Hart resulted in Scott's arrangements taking more of the form of a suicide watch, just in case, considering what the man had just confessed.

Hart also offered a few details disclosed to her by her client and given over with his permission. The statute of limitations on his molestation claim expired years earlier, but Scott heard there was a Syrian boy who Porter also violated during a trip to the Med the previous year. Gibbs nodded, making a mental note to check with Ziva to see if her contact had any success with nailing down that allegation yet.

Gibbs then brief Vance by phone, letting him know of the tremendous boost in information the case received as the result of Scott's apprehension and the fact that they were burying it due to possible information leaks within the office itself. There was still much to verify, but they now had several leads to follow on the cold case, the drug case, McGee's case and a new allegation of sexual abuse of children. Scott wanted that information withheld from McGee, but Gibbs wondered if his agent already suspected it. McGee might have been naïve at one time, but he was far from stupid and his experience in criminal investigation was vast. This puzzle was no longer so complicated that the missing pieces could not be anticipated.

Hart also offered one final bit of information. She said he client was willing to turn over all of his surveillance, including his recordings made during his confrontation with Porter and what he had learned about the drug ring in a year of stalking the man. She said she would supply Gibbs with the location of that information as soon as JAG put a deal in her hands to her client's immunity. While Gibbs was not one to enjoy deals or do anything to help nudge them along, he did personally put in a call to Commander Faith Coleman to do just that. As far as he knew, the only law for certain that Scott broke was walking away from his official post without permission. Coleman was hesitant at first, but when she heard the scope of the case she arranged a meeting with Hart. It would take until the next morning, but she felt certain they could reach and arrangement.

And there would be no slip ups this time with security around the witness. Gibbs guaranteed that with a call to Fornell. The FBI arrived at a coffee shop in downtown an hour later and slipped Scott into the back of their black Suburban to be whisked off. Where was known to Fornell and his handpicked team only, although he joked they would be spending time at Camp David with the President.

Meanwhile, Gibbs sent his team home. Bishop was long gone at that point. McGee had abandoned his desk for his bed and Tony was looking for an excuse to linger but took the order to catch a few Z's before things heated up the next day.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _McGee and Abby's Home_**

It was early evening by the time McGee got home. He had made his trip to the ER to have his hand checked. The x-ray revealed a fracture of the fourth metacarpal bone (the ring finger) and the swelling had caused slight displacement of the triquetral. He was given a splint and told not to punch anything again.

The check at the ER had taken several hours as he was not an emergent case. He did text Abby and let her know he would be late and why. He figured it was a sign of how angry she was with him that all he received in response was a simple "Ok."

When he finally arrived home, he found Abby fast asleep in their room. He fished his ring out of his pocket and put it on the dresser for safekeeping until he could put it on again. As he did so, he spied Abby's overnight bag sitting on the dresser. She had not taken anything with her to Bishop's the night before so whatever was in it, she had packed that day. McGee swallowed hard, feeling a pang of fear and self-loathing that she was considering staying elsewhere.

After seeing it, the urge to wake her was strong, but he resisted, leaving the bag untouched where he spotted it. He worried that waking her just to apologize and begging her to reconsider going away would result in her finishing with the bag and leaving. Sleeping their room also seemed like a bad idea. He did not think he would do much more than toss and turn the whole night. So, to save her the distraction, he crashed on the couch that evening—spending most of it staring at the ceiling as the multitude of vile possibilities of what Scott might have told Gibbs and Tony filled his head.

He woke early and Abby was still asleep as he got ready for work. Rather than wake her, he got ready and slipped out of the house (possibly cowardly, possibly guiltily) without speaking to her. He left her a note, a more personal touch than a text message, stating that he was sorry and that he wanted to talk to her and explain everything later.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Norfolk Naval Base_**

The government sedan pulled up to the abandoned, multi-story structure in the next day's hazy afternoon heat. Tony scowled as he thought harshly of Bishop left behind in DC to continue her follow up on the untimely death of Renner. Ducky was performing the autopsy that day and she hoped to have answers for the Director shortly. Meanwhile, her team was in the field doing grunt work, Tony grumbled as he slammed the door of the car.

"I'm just saying: Why couldn't just one of these guys hide out in a luxury home?" he groaned as they geared up amid the chaos of the gathering search personnel. "Why is it always grimy buildings that ooze Legionnaire's disease? I get the creeping crud from this, and I'm blaming you, McGee. This is what your pal thinks is a nice get away from the office? I mean, you can't tell me he isn't a little nuts. He was on a Navy base while hiding from, wait for it, the Navy!"

McGee tuned out the diatribe. He, too, was tired and cranky. He also was not pleased when Hart provided Gibbs with Scott's hideout and the location of his information stash: Norfolk Naval Base, 200 miles south.

Feeling every last arduous mile of the two-hour ride, McGee grabbed his backpack and fished out the flashlight as he looked at their target search area. From amount of dirt on the windows, and the limited number of them in the first place, he doubted the inside would be well lit.

"Boss is going to coordinate everyone from out here," Tony said and he jerked his head as he saw Gibbs arrive with base security. "He's given us the honor of starting at the top where the cuckoo's nest is supposed to be."

"Carter's not crazy, Tony," McGee assured him. "I mean, yeah, he's always been a little nuts, but that doesn't make him crazy."

"It is either a sign of how screwed up our lives our, how twisted this job has made me, or how long I've worked with you, but I actually understand that," Tony groaned as he started toward the building.

He was on the fence about whether the Lt. Commander was nuts or not. What the man went through did a job on his head that was certain. McGee's confidence in his friend wasn't based on knowing the whole story, but Tony kept his lips sealed.

McGee was on his partner's heels as his phone rang. He squinted against the brilliant sunrays but could not see the screen to identify the caller.

"Timothy McGee," he answered formally.

"McGee?" Abby's voice carried over the phone in a garbled fashion.

"Abby?" McGee asked. "Hi, um, I can't talk right now. I know I said we'd talk later, and we will. Just not now. I'm in Norfolk."

Her transmission broke up as she responded. McGee could not decipher a word. He looked around and considering all the interference and the proximity to who knows how much radar technology from the ship moored a few hundred yards away he wasn't surprised. He looked around and saw nearly nothing at this far end other than the child development center adjacent to the derelict warehouse. He didn't want to think about what might be lurking in the building. It looked like it was built in the 1960s and probably had mold in it just as old. He felt a tightness in his chest just thinking about it.

"I just… to say… and I… you," Abby's voice carried in a broken fashion over the line. "I'm not… anymore… but… disapp… Need to… next time."

"Abby, I can't hear you; you're breaking up," McGee said. "We're about to search a warehouse on the base. It's pretty big so it's going to take a while. I'll be home later tonight. Will… will you be there?"

He asked the question with more worry than he had felt in many hours and dreaded the answer.

"Of course," she said, sounding hurt at his question.

For as bad as he felt prompting that kind of answer, he was glad to receive it all the same. This had constituted their first real fight since they got married, and it left him feeling just as bad (if not worse) than he ever did any other time when they had rankled each other in the past.

"Okay," he said. "I'll see when I get home. I love you. Abby? Abby?"

He stared at his phone then sighed and stuffed it back in his pocket hoping she heard at least the part where he said he would see her later.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Warehouse_**

Climbing the four stories of switchbacks while carrying his pack in the sweltering summer heat was not the way Tony wanted to spend the day. He didn't want to be in Norfolk at all. He was tired from his trip to Puerto Rico/Haiti/the Dominican Republic during the previous week and an all-nighter watching the bionic man not talk to him and Gibbs. After that, there was the marathon Q&A with the guy that left Tony feeling sorry for the SEAL. It also left him with a guilty knot in his stomach for all the things he was not telling McGee.

Perhaps the only good part of their session with Scott was what he revealed about McGee. He might have had his brains scrambled by both a sedative whose properties were known to trigger short term memory loss and visit to a completely disreputable shrink, but those were the worst of the crimes against him. For all the disrespect Tony felt toward the late Admiral McGee, he had to admit the man's forceful personality had scared enough people even back then to keep their tainted hands and ideas away from his son.

What amazed Tony was how Scott kept the secret. Granted, he repressed like a pro. His boiling point was reached after his accident in Dubai resulted in him receiving some medication that let loose some of the things he had convinced himself never happened. Once the floodgate opened, there was no closing it. The dominos he kicked over following that nearly had disastrous consequences.

Not to mention it was culminating in Tony hiking up flights of stairs in a dank building that surely couldn't pass an EPA air exam. He looked over his shoulder to check on McGee who was a few steps behind.

"You whistling to pass the time or are those the dulcet sounds of an asthma attack coming on?" Tony wondered with a smirk. "If you think you're going to pull that as a way of getting out of tossing your buddy's crib to find his stash of evidence, think again."

"I'm not the one complaining," McGee grumbled, although he had to admit to himself he had been on the verge of doing so just before Tony spoke.

There was a stitch in his side and the air felt thick with each respiration. Hot, humid days were never good. Any asthmatic already had inflamed airways. Add to that the fumes and vapors from the fuel of the port, the allergens in the unventilated warehouse, and the hot moist air and it was a combination for a very bad day for McGee. The last thing he needed was to have an attack. It would drag out the day longer and he just wanted to grab his friend's gathered information and head back to DC so he could see Abby before she turned in for the night. He was tired as well. From the travel, the worry and the all-nighter, he was still whipped. Fighting with Abby and worrying about her didn't help his mind rest any when he did catch a few winks.

"Was that McBabbyMomma who called you?" Tony asked. "You still in the doghouse with her?"

"No," McGee replied. "I mean, yes, it was Abby, but she's not mad… I don't think. I couldn't really hear her. I know she's not pleased that I lied to her, but that's different than being mad. Just the sooner we put this case to bed, then the sooner everything will be fine."

 _Amen to that_ , Tony thought as he reached the top floor.

"Oh hell no," he groaned as he surveyed the expanse in front of them.

It was a mess. A huge maze of junk lit only with the murky, dappled light from the dirt encrusted windows. Tony reached for his flashlight and scanned the floor.

"It's like an episode of Hoarders for junkmen who were competing for the biggest piles of crap," he noted. "Where the hell did he live up here?"

"Check near the windows," McGee said, gesturing along the walls. "He'd want to have a view of the entrance to this floor. There are two, one on this side, one on the other. He probably camped out a bit of a ways from the stairs so it wouldn't be discovered quickly or easily by someone just wandering up here."

Tony nodded, finding the assessment rational and plausible. He pointed to one side, sending McGee down that lane of the junk kingdom while he took the parallel path. They picked their way through the valleys and canyons of heaps and piles, tripping occasionally and stumbling at hidden obstacles on the floor. McGee heard Tony crash into something a few times and went down on his own knees once. He looked quickly and saw blood seeping through the small tear in his jeans from the jagged piece of metal on the floor. The sight left him wondering if receiving a Tetanus shot was proper treatment for a gunshot wound. If not, he'd need to get one as soon as this day was done.

"You finding anything?" McGee asked as they began to converge on the back corner.

"Other than the broken junk from Area 51 and the rejected crap from that warehouse where they stored the arc of the covenant, no," Tony replied. "Wait. I take that back. Found it."

McGee quickened his step and approached the area where Tony's light glowed. To get there, McGee made his way past derelict machinery whose purpose was a mystery as well as shelves of parts, heaps of scrap metal, and a series of oil drums that looked oddly placed for their tight grouping, but he put the mess out of his mind. As he arrived, Tony shone his light on an austere a bunk and signs someone called the cruddy, little spot home.

They scanning the area for the electronic devices Scott claimed he used to surveil McGee, Porter and several others during his year-long search for answers. Of most interest to McGee was the laptop that the SEAL reported contained all his archival footage and other information. McGee tossed the bunk and the area around it with no luck.

"This doesn't make sense," McGee said. "Where's his stuff?"

"He's a leading member of Hermits-R-Us," Tony scoffed. "He doesn't have any stuff."

"I mean his computer," McGee corrected. "It should be here."

"Well, he's a cautious guy," Tony replied. "He's obviously hidden it in this lovely wasteland. We can get someone to talk to him and find out where he stuck it. Not sure why he didn't tell us precisely in the first place but…"

He stopped in mid-sentence and cocked his head to the side. McGee paused and waited for the rest of the offering, but none seemed to be coming. He shot Tony a questioning look.

"Did you hear that?" Tony asked dropping his voice to a whisper.

"Hear what?" McGee wondered as he swept the area with his flashlight. "Look, Carter said he left his laptop here. If he hid it, he would have said that. I don't see one. Something's not right here."

"Go to open channel," Tony ordered keying the mic on his headset as he ordered McGee to do the same.

The act opened the channel between them and Gibbs. He could hear everything they said rather than just them listening to him on their earwigs and activating their voice transmitters to speak to him.

"Boss," Tony said in a low but controlled tone.

"Yeah, DiNozzo?" Gibbs responded from his post outside the warehouse.

Tony drew his weapon with one hand and gave me McGee a hand signal to extinguish his light. He did so and pulled his weapon as well. He eyed Tony with a critical eye.

"Keep everyone else off this floor," Tony whispered into his comm mic. "We may have company. McGee and I will check it out and see if we can flush whoever it is your way."

"Copy," Gibbs replied. "Cassie, pull your people back. Repeat, everyone, drop back and hold position."

He made eye contact with base security to ensure they were listening as well. Their forces exited the building and formed a perimeter around the building. As that was happening, Gibbs communicated directly with this agents.

"What did you see?" Gibbs asked.

"Not see, hear," Tony whispered as he gestured for McGee to circle to his left around the bunk area. "McGee and I are checking the northeast corner. I heard something move. Sounded bigger than a breadbox. I just I hope it's not rats."

"I'd prefer it if was," McGee muttered.

Gibbs distinctly heard a harsh if soft scolding of 'shut up, probie' before the airwaves went silent.

Inside the structure, Tony neared the spot where he heard movement. He made eye contact with McGee who nodded as they drew closer to the shadowy corner. Tony then shirked as the source of the noise caught both his eyes and his ears. A box, the size of a footrest, was rocking and sliding across the floor with a faint hissing noise emanating from it. Cautiously, Tony nudged the side and expelled the sound of a cat's shriek followed by the streak of a rather ornery tabby that darted out of sight as McGee yelped in surprise. Tony chuckled with delight.

"All clear," he reported with relief then chuckled. "Except for you, McFraidyCat. Did Silvester scare you, Timmy?"

McGee scowled as he sneezed twice in a row. He knew some part of the reaction was psychosomatic, but the itchiness of his eyes and the feeling that he was getting stuffed up was real. That cat had obviously been roaming the area a lot recently; although how it got under the box was a question.

"Can we just get this over with?" McGee grumbled as he turned on his flashlight again. "Quit screwing around and help me find the laptop, will you?"

Gibbs listened from his place on the perimeter of the search area. He had every available tech from the Norfolk office and the few available agents searching the bottom floor while base security cordoned off the warehouse. He wanted to be inside but someone needed to play ring master for this circus. That left him trying to piece together what his agents were doing inside. Normally, he trusted them to do their jobs with professionalism. That day, however, the discovery of the cat seemed to have tapped into the sleep deprived parts of their brains and turned the search into the final minutes of a study hall before the end of the school day.

"Uh, Tony," McGee's voice carried over the open channel with the hints of mischief in it. "Looky here. Your worst fear."

The sound that followed was a yip followed by a crash and a thud and some cursing from Tony. Gibbs tersely asked what was going on and was prepared to threaten headslaps.

"Just a little family of rats, Boss," McGee chuckled as he sneezed again.

In the warehouse, Tony scowled then stumbled.

"That's not funny, McSneezy," Tony snarled then seethed.

The faintest sound, like a chirp from a dying cell battery caught the senior field agent's ears and a flash of red flickered near the floor. From his position on his knees, Tony peered under the shelf closest to the bunk and saw something that made his blood run cold.

"Oh," Tony said in a devastated tone. "That is not good."

"What?" McGee asked from the other side of the shelf as he crouched down to see what caught his partner's attention. "What's not…? Oh. Okay."

It was change in McGee's tone, just like Tony's, that sharpened Gibbs' attention. There was no more mirth. The merriment and teasing was gone. What he heard was cold severe discovery in their voices. Unfortunately, they were not being sufficiently verbal to let the team leader know what it was they found.

"You see it?" Tony asked then received a stiff nod from his partner. "Rats."

Outside the building, Gibbs scoffed and scowled.

"Knock it off and get over the rodents," Gibbs barked. "It's a warehouse."

"Uh, Boss, he means rats in another sense," McGee defended his partner as his voice quaked.

"Stupid question," Tony began. "Do you think it's live?"

"Uh, yeah," McGee said nervously. "It's definitely live."

Gibbs froze. The difference between live and alive was so small. A single letter. And yet the meanings were so vastly different in this situation. Alive might take the case in a new direction, add a new witness in a new facet. Live could end up with quite the opposite result of the word itself in a certain context.

"Boss," Tony's voice carried firm and clear over the channel. "Clear the building. Now. I found something."

Gibbs offered terse order to clear the building and signaled to the security forces to begin making that happen.

"Talk to me," Gibbs ordered.

"Boss, we've got a device and a timer," McGee answered. "I'm seeing wires, more wires, and… Oh… Yeah. Clear the building. Now."

Gibbs tuned out his agents for a moment and locked eyes with the Lieutenant commanding base security who was also listening in. The Lieutenant turned his radio to a separate frequency and summoned emergency responders and an EOD team. He then barked orders to get all the other agents and techs out of the building.

"I'm coming in," Gibbs announced.

"No," Tony barked. "Boss, don't come in here."

"There isn't time, Boss," McGee agreed hurriedly. "It's going to take you at least five minutes at a dead run to get up here from where you are—and we don't have that much time."

"McGee, come on," Tony said. "Let's go. If Gibbs can't get up here that fast, it means we don't have that much time to get out of here."

"Tony, hold on," McGee ordered. "The wires are… Oh god. Don't move."

"Don't touch it, McGee," Tony ordered. "What are you doing?"

"Hey," Gibbs barked over the channel as people started running from the building. "One of you needs to tell me what is going on right now!"

There was a slight pause and a crackle of static over the line before Tony's voice returned in a highly controlled tone that signaled his fear.

"We have a device with a timer and what looks like…," Tony said in a slightly higher pitch than normal. "They're connected by a lot of wires to… Oh, what looks like a few oil drums of stuff that's gonna result in us having a very bad day if McGee doesn't get off his damn knees and…"

"Stop moving!" McGee said harshly.

"If this is real, it's enough go juice to level this building and probably take out the next one or two," Tony reported. "We've got to go, Tim."

"Boss," McGee said tensely, "the base's child development center is behind this building. They need to be evacuated. Quickly."

Gibbs winced at both the information and the worry he heard in his agent's voice. He chanced a look at the Lieutenant who curtly nodded, giving him confirmation base security was dealing with that.

"We're on it," Gibbs said calmly. "Now, back off and get out of there. Leave it for the EOD team. They're on their way."

"Not an option," McGee said nervously. "Timer says four minutes now. Even if we run, we aren't making it. Tony, you're standing on a pressure plate. You step off, it blows. Let me see if I can do something here."

Tony cursed as he scoped the floor and saw the offending wires that had McGee so tense. He swallowed and felt sweat bead up on his forehead.

"Boss, he's right," he replied. "Looks like I'm about to have a bad day. McGee, you can go. Get out of here."

"No," he shook his head.

"So what, you're going to just sit here and pretend you're getting our own ride in a jetpack when this goes off?' Tony asked tensely.

"We don't know what else is in this building," McGee argued. "There are fuel tanks on the floor below, there could be ordinance for all we know. If we don't try to diffuse this, it's going to blow. There are teachers and kids in the building next door. We try and maybe we give them a chance."

Tony sighed and nodded but barked an order all the same.

"Fine, I'll work on it," he said. "You go. Now!"

Gibbs listened to their discussion with a racing heart and building frustration that the EOD was still not on site. Meanwhile, McGee could be heard muttering softly to himself, thinking out loud but not in a strong voice.

Tony mumbled, seeming to understanding his partner's thoughts. They were the only chance of sidestepping disaster. Tony had limited mobility due to the pressure plate. McGee had limited mobility due to the injury to his hand.

"Why do our lives look always look like the last two minutes of a TV show season finale?" Tony asked. "Can you do anything with it, McGadget?

Gibbs snarled as he glared at the building seeing the last of the other personnel run toward the perimeter that security was pushing further back. He too was being pushed backward to evacuate further from the build. He checked his watch, two more minutes had passed.

"It's a two-way Delta circuit," McGee explained. "It's not overly complicated. I don't see any tamper proofing of the circuit. No mercury switches. Just… wires and an ignition source."

"Any idea which wire is the game winner?" Tony asked tensely. "If you're not sure, get your scrawny butt moving to the stairs. They're encased in concrete. That might shield you. Look, I got it. We're partners and you don't leave your wingman."

"Never was a fan of Top Gun, Tony," McGee said.

"Nice," Tony scoffed, impressed he got the reference under pressure. "Still, Abby and the McMini-Me's expecting you home for dinner tonight. I'm the ranking agent on scene, and I'm absolving you of your responsibility. You've been given an order to leave. Now, follow it."

"Let me just…," McGee insisted.

"Hey!" Tony barked. "This isn't a phone that needs rebooting. It's a bomb."

McGee heard the words then blinked as he looked at the device again and an idea popped into his head. He met Tony's face, now gone pale with the fear and anxiety McGee knew was radiating from his own eyes as well, but the ghost of a grin washed across the pale agent's features. He reached into his back and pulled out the knife he carried, a Swiss Army kind, and lifted the screw driver head.

"Actually, it is a phone," McGee said breathlessly. "Or part of it was. I recognize this. It might be your lucky day. This is the circuit board is a Motorola model…"

"Stop being fascinated with the technology," Tony said harshly. "Leave, McGee."

"McGee, how much time?" Gibbs asked as he distantly heard the sirens for the responders and (he hoped) and EOD team.

"Seventy seconds," he replied. "Okay, I just need to.."

"Cut the black wire?" Tony suggested. "That's what they do in the movies."

"This isn't the Hurt Locker," McGee said.

"Nice, good flick," Tony said sounding keyed up and breathless. "Okay, I mean it. The north stairs are 40 feet away. If you bolt..."

Gibbs listened helplessly, his gut grinding and every nerve in his body pushing him to race toward the trouble but every ounce of training in him telling him he had to stay back, help control the scene and wait.

"I think I can get the timer to short out," McGee said hearing the tremor in his voice. "After that, we just need to get the pressure plate decoupled and…"

Gibbs waited for the rest of McGee's explanation. As the precious seconds ticked by there was none. He called for a sit rep himself.

"He can't hear you," Tony reported. "He's pulled off his comm link and is taking it apart. What are you doing, Tim? Trying to build a better bomb?"

Distantly, Gibbs could heat snatches of McGee's words as they were caught over Tony's mic.

"… a Motorola X5….7 model," McGee explained. "Short circuits… recall… out of…. Maybe."

Tony sighed then offered an update Gibbs did not want.

"Boss, he said something about a motherboard and inventory," Tony said. "He's going to take the battery from my headset for extra volts, or something, so we're going offline. We'll either see you in a few minutes… or we won't."

Gibbs waited as the emergency vehicles screeched to a halt behind him. He watched his watch as the seconds ticked down. It took all his will power to not to run toward the building when his mind told him the timer must have run out but his agents had not nor had there been an explosion. He gave a terse rundown to the arriving personnel and was about to relinquish control of the scene entirely to the arriving EOD team when a fireball burst from the upper window and the ground shook.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come.


	50. Chapter 50

**_Note:_** To the guest reviewer who said you wished I wrote for the show, I thank you. Best compliment I've ever received.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Warehouse_**

The EOD team sent in specialists. Precious, agonizing minutes ticked by as they needed to clear each floor to their satisfaction before letting anyone else enter. Gibbs knew this was standard operation procedure and understood its value. Still, he was on the verge of pulling his weapon and blazing in to search for his agents when the radio crackled and called for the medics.

The ambulance tore past him, and he saw EMTs rush into the building as the radio squawked that there were injured personnel on the fourth floor. Gibbs ran to the building and released a breath he did not realize he was holding. However, upon arriving, he was prevented from entering the building by an MP.

"That's my team," Gibbs insisted as he pointed aggressively at the entrance. "Those are my guys in there."

"I understand, sir, but we need to keep the stairs clear," the man replied holding out a restricting hand. "The structure isn't sound, and we need to get everyone out fast. No one else goes in. Those are my orders, sir."

Gibbs seethed as he stalked back to the ambulance and waited. He dialed Ducky's number instantly and gave him a series of orders that included contacting whoever at the hospital would give him answers quickly once the EMTs arrived with their charges. There was little chance, Gibbs knew, that his guys would be walking out of this one with just a couple scratches. All the window on the upper floor were obliterated by the blast. The crew inside had reported significant structure damage, and the chatter from McGee and Tony upon arriving initially spoke of thousands of candidates for flying shrapnel.

His next order was for Ducky to get to Abby and keep her from hearing the news from anyone else. Despite Gibb's order to base security and leaders to lockdown the base and not release any information at all, there was a chance that news crews would get wind of what happened. He didn't want Abby to learn of an explosion on the base from a TV report that wouldn't be accurate or sufficiently informative. Try as he might to treat all of his colleagues the same, he had a different level of worry for Abby because of her pregnancy. He knew it was chauvinistic, but it didn't matter. He had spoken to McGee about Abby's wellbeing several times, sensing more than normal worry from him and learned the additional complications and high-risk of a twin pregnancy. Pre-term labor, induced by stress, was near the top of the list. Gibbs knew Abby could worry better and more intensely than anyone he ever met. With the life of her husband and her close friend hanging in the balance already, he didn't want to add problems for her unborn children to the mess.

Gibbs also was concerned for Tony's father. DiNozzo Senior was not a young man and worried about his son a great deal more than he ever told Tony. Gibbs swiftly called Bishop and dispatched her to locate Tony's father. Gibbs vowed he would provide the man news as soon as the agents were brought out of the building.

When that happened a few minutes later, Gibbs's hopes that he might offer good news were not high.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Portsmith Medical Center_**

After securing the scene, anointing Cassie Yates as his surrogate agent-on-scene, getting a swift rundown of what appeared to have happened inside the building, and finally briefing Vance from the NCIS field office, Gibbs took off for the hospital. It had been more than two hours since his team was hauled away on stretchers, and the only good news he had on that front was that no one called him with an update to say they were dead.

It seemed the only good news of the day was about the bomb.

Or rather, the bombs.

His team had managed to diffuse the one they found, or short it out more precisely. Gibbs would wait for the full report from the forensics team on how they managed that with a Swiss Army knife and what amounted to two watch batteries. The explosion was small compared to what his agents had predicted and already the crime scene techs knew why: They diffused a large explosive device successfully. However, there was a smaller one, one they did not apparently know about, that was triggered. It appeared the second device was tripped by another timer linked to the first one. When the first one was dismantled, it told the second one to start counting; the estimate placed that timer at no more than 30 seconds.

His agents never had a chance to get out unscathed.

As Tony and McGee attempted to flee the scene, while thinking themselves unbelievably lucky for ducking the reaper's blade, they were just delaying a heart stopping moment. The only good news on that front was that evidence showed they were walking away from the bomb rather than into it. They had reached the stairs when the explosive force of the fireball threw them into the stairwell and dashed them into the walls. The metals walls surrounding the stairs offered some protection from the fire and the shrapnel, but they were burned, bloody and broken when carried from the scene.

Gibbs had heard frantic words like decreased breath sounds, heart palpitations, blood loss, protruding trauma, and possible internal bleeding shouted by EMTs as they had hurried to the ambulance.

Despite initial criticism from the EOD techs that the agents should have never attempted to diffuse the initial device, the later discovery of the second bomb changed that tune. As Gibbs tried to marshal the chaos of the scene while on the phone with Vance, the explosive specialists returned with revised findings and commended Gibbs's team for their quick thinking. They estimated that the unexploded device McGee and Tony diffused would have left a hole the size of tomorrow in area around that end of the pier, likely resulting in an unspeakable casualty tally between the security and NCIS personnel on scene and the proximity to the children's learning and development center next door. The second device, the one that did blow, was smaller and packed less punch. It was apparently a device that was to guarantee the full explosive power of the previous one—a secondary explosion to send any molten shrapnel flying to cause further casualties.

What Gibbs saw of his team when they were put into the ambulance haunted him as he stormed into the ER. It was approaching the two and a half hour mark since they were taken from the scene—nearly three hours since he first called Ducky, although it seemed only mere minutes had passed to him. With a murderous glare that demanded answers (good and helpful ones), Gibbs approached the front desk with his badge leading the way to cut through the "need to know" waltz that happened so often in these locations.

"Someone is going to tell me right now what's going on with two patients brought in here with injuries from an explosion," Gibbs said to the middle aged nurse in front of him. "And that someone better start talking. Now."

She opened her mouth, possibly to cry, but was saved the trouble when someone several inches short and 20 years old than her stepped in.

"Jethro," Ducky hurried to his side breathlessly. "I believe I can help you with that."

Gibbs looked startled upon hearing and seeing the medical examiner so far from the Navy Yard. He did not recall telling Ducky to make a trip to the hospital. Gibbs just wanted him to get answers and translate medical babble into English for him while doing damage control for those left behind in D.C.

"Duck," he turned intensely but gratefully to his colleague and friend. "What are you doing here?"

"Director Vance sent me," he explained. "I am not here to retrieve anyone for my table. I am here to retrieve evidence from the hospital personnel who are treating our patients as your team is decidedly unable to do so and the Norfolk agents are stretched too thin in dealing with the crime scene on the base. The Director wants everything about this event held closely and did not want to bring any else from out office into the know."

Gibbs grunted his displeasure and his agreement. Vance was swiftly clamping down on information, which meant he might have a clue on the identity of the mole. Since the first possibility of one hit the table, Gibb's gut told him it was someone in a support position—not an agent. What Vance's thoughts were, Gibbs did not know. What he did know was that a mole could be deadly, and it appeared the rodent in their midst was proving that. Finding that bastard (or the bitch, he corrected himself) was priority number two. Right now, he needed to know about his team.

"Where are DiNozzo and McGee?" Gibbs asked. "What's their condition?"

Ducky grasped him firmly on the arm and led him down a less crowded corridor then lowered his voice to expel any unnecessary drama and anxiety. Gibbs was an intense man and at no time did that verve grow stronger than when those he cared for were in danger.

"They're alive and still being treated by the trauma teams," Ducky explained. "Anthony has a linear skull fracture in the upper parietal region. He also sustained a compound fracture of the left clavicle. They got the bleeding from that under control and have just taken him into surgery. He needs a metal plate to secure the displaced bone so that it will heal properly. Due to the rupture of the bone through the skin, there was a great deal of blood loss along with the muscle, tendon and ligament involvement. That is in addition to multiple lacerations and some first, second, and even a few small third degree burns. I would estimate he is looking at an 8 to 12 week recovery before he can consider returning to work."

"A skull fracture, a broken collar bone, a few stitches and some burns?" Gibbs repeated and scrubbed a hand across his face.

 _Painful but survivable_ , Gibbs told himself with the first hints of grateful relief.

"Yes," Ducky explained. "The collar bone injury is the most serious of the lot. The skull fracture sounds terrible, but it is fortunately a linear break far from a suture so there is little chance of any complications. He will be in pain from the resulting concussion, but so far there is no evidence of significant edema. That is why they feel secure in doing the surgery now."

"I knew that hard head would come in handy someday," Gibbs muttered with some measure of relief.

He nodded and exhaled some of the fear he was holding. None of it was good news, but it certainly could be worse.

"What about McGee?" Gibbs asked, hoping this wasn't the part where worse news was delivered.

"They are still working on Timothy," Ducky sighed. "They were both thrown by the force of the blast. Where Anthony appear to have struck something vertical and flat—a wall perhaps—before tumbling down the stairs, Timothy was thrown into something less uniform. I would guess he struck something like a bar or a railing for the stairs. Part of his chest met the impediment while the rest of the ribcage was left unharmed. As such, he presented with classic blast and blunt force trauma injuries: two broken ribs in this instance that triggered a tension pneumothorax."

"A collapsed lung and a couple busted ribs," Gibbs translated. "That's not so bad, is it?"

"It could have been much worse, but the delay in getting to treatment after the blast was unfortunate if unavoidable," Ducky explained. "As I said, Anthony lost a good deal of blood; he was in shock upon arrival. Timothy's injuries compromised his respiratory integrity. The pressure in his chest cavity went unmitigated sufficiently long that his oxygen levels are down as is his blood pressure, both of which are exacerbated by the resulting tachycardia."

Low oxygen and fast heart rate, Gibbs nodded. Neither detail gave him enough to assess whether this was merely a painful situation or a dangerous one.

"How bad is it?" he asked.

Gibbs had experienced a collapsed lung before and while it wasn't pleasant it was something he walked away from in a matter of days. However, Ducky's expression seemed to indicate McGee would not be walking out of the ER bay anytime soon.

"Individually, the conditions can be easily remedied," Ducky said. "Combined, they pose the risk for serious complications. In worse case scenarios, they can progress, worsen, and cause death, but the doctors are not forecasting such a dire result at this time. Like Anthony, Timothy was actually quite lucky. His fractured ribs did not displace and therefore did not puncture the lung. His spleen is miraculously intact, and there is no evidence of internal bleeding. Right now, the main concern is alleviating the pressure in his chest cavity to allow his lung to re-inflate. The doctor has been attempting fine needle aspiration—that is, he is inserting a needle into Timothy's chest to remove the fluid and escaped air that has caused his lung to collapse. It is not a fast or easy process."

"But that will fix it?" Gibbs guessed.

"It is effective in up to 50 percent of cases," Ducky nodded.

"If it isn't?" Gibbs asked.

"They'll need to insert a chest tube, although they are hesitant to take that route unless absolutely necessary due to Timothy's cardiovascular surgery last year," Ducky revealed. "There is concern that if the pressure is not released in a controlled fashion that it could cause shifting and damage to the mediastinal organs—those that sit in the cavity between the sternum and the spinal column, such as the heart, esophagus, trachea, thymus and the aorta, which is a delicate area for all humans and perhaps more so for Timothy at the moment."

"Heart and the aorta?" Gibbs repeated as words like aortic arch and rupture echoed in his mind from a year earlier.

"They are aware of his cardiothoracic history and the tissue graft he received a year ago—his scars are hard to miss," Ducky assured him. "They are taking great precautions and proceeding in a methodical manner. They conducted an echocardiogram and have consulted with Dr. Westlake, his previous surgeon. She is in agreement with their course of treatment at this time and will be kept apprised as needed."

Ducky surveyed the agent's face and found angst and anger. He saw frustration and a sense of helplessness. He knew Gibbs would rather take the place of both of his agents in that moment and it galled him that there was nothing to do but wait.

"Jethro, I know all of this sounds overwhelmingly dark and dire, but there is great cause for hope," Ducky said encouragingly. "While your teams' injuries are serious, this is a level one trauma center. The medical personnel here are most capable at their jobs. Anthony will be in surgery for a little more than an hour. As for Timothy, they are working diligently and are giving him plenty of oxygen while administering medication to control the tachycardia. By the time Anthony is in recovery, Timothy may be out of the ER and admitted to a room for the night."

"Is McGee awake?" Gibbs asked.

"He was minimally conscious in the ambulance but has since been mildly sedated in order to facilitate the somewhat painful aspiration procedures they are performing," Ducky reported. "When he arrived, he was not oriented as to place or time, but he knew his name and date of birth. Asking more than that given the circumstances would be unrealistic as he has a significant concussion. Still, he was much luckier than Anthony by avoiding a skull fracture. Of the two of them, once they get Timothy's breathing under control, he will be in pain but it will be far less than what Anthony feels by morning."

"They're going to make it until morning?" Gibbs asked.

He feeling a lot like he had when Tony was exposed to the pneumonic plague. Even though they discovered the bug had a suicide gene, the worry was how much damage was done and whether complications would set in despite the biggest threat being taken off the table. Gibbs had lost other colleagues and put one member of his team in a body bag in the past. He wasn't prepared to do that again.

"Yes," Ducky said firmly. "They both will survive. I am virtually certain of it."

"Does Abby know?" Gibbs asked and saw the response on the medical examiner's face. "She's here, isn't she?"

"You could not have realistically expected her to remain in Washington while I traveled here," Ducky remarked sternly. "The last thing she needed to do was drive all this way on her own distraught and upset. Pregnancy is hardly a frailty, but it does present its own challenges. She has already been under considerable stress for the last few days, and I thought it best for her to come with me rather than get here on her own. Besides, she has every right to be here, and I don't think there was a force on the planet that would have stopped her. She is in the waiting room. I made her stop pacing in the hall while I came to find you. Eleanor has contacted Anthony's father. Mr. DiNozzo is in New York visiting friends and will be taking the train back to Washington tonight. I promised I will let him know as soon as Anthony is out of surgery."

Gibbs scrubbed a hand across his face. The news was better than he hoped but worse than he wanted. He would be working through the night in Norfolk to follow up on what was being pulled from the blast site. He suggested Ducky go down the street to reserve a room at the hotel around the corner as he would not be driving back that day. Spry though he might be, at his age driving 400 mile round trip in a single day was ill-advised.

"Oh, I didn't drive," Ducky replied. "I brought in a specialist to get Abigail and myself here swiftly. As for my lodgings, I have my room arranged. I also took the liberty of getting one for Abigail. It would be a good idea of you made sure she used it."

He then gestured to the waiting room. Gibbs took a deep breath and made his way in that direction.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Waiting Room_**

Abby stared unseeingly at the bland, beige, square tiles on the floor. She sat rigidly in the chair where Ducky left her after someone from the ER came out to speak to them and give her the welcomed if unhelpful news that her husband was alive but not ready to head home.

"Hey," Gibbs said taking a seat beside her.

Abby's bottom lip quivered as she saw him. She had kept her composure for the most part since Ducky brought the blood-chilling news of the explosion to her. The drive to Norfolk, one made in record time according to Ducky, was a blur to her as she recalled nothing after being brought to her house to grab a few necessary items prior to departing along the road south at an incredible speed. She had stared out the windows not taking in anything she saw as her fears, so similar to a year earlier, boiled in her stomach and struck her silent. Falling apart or flying apart both seemed like possibilities to her, but she knew she needed to hold herself together until she had the full story. After that, she would make phone calls for McGee's mother, sister, and grandmother.

And after that, she would give herself free reign to flip out and fall to pieces.

But upon seeing Gibbs, the flood of tears she had held back surged to the surface and burst over her lids as he put his arm around her. He kissed the side of her head and held her as she shook from her sobs.

"He's going to be okay," he said with more confidence that he felt. "They both are."

"Why did this happen?" she wept.

"Don't know yet," Gibbs said. "I don't want you worrying about that either. We've got people who will figure that out. How are you feeling?"

"I'm scared," she said tightly. "I know what the doctor said. I just wish they had a better update than critical but stable. I keep going to the desk to see if there is any change, but every time I do someone there asks me how far apart the contractions are. Today, my ego doesn't need to hear that I look nine months pregnant already. What's worse is that after they ask, I have to spend five minutes explaining to them that I'm not here to give birth and make them find someone who knows what's going on back there. I swear if it happens again, I'm going to tell them I'm not even pregnant and start to…"

Gibbs chuckled at the absurdity, cutting off her rant, as he gave her a one-armed hug. She fell silent and shuddered as she rested her head on his shoulder.

"Let them do their jobs," he told her. "Ducky says what the doctor is doing to fix McGee usually works, and if doesn't they'll try the other thing that does. I know waiting is hard, but McGee is going to walk out of this hospital sore but under his own power in a day or two."

She sniffled and nodded. Ducky had told her the same thing. It was the waiting that was agonizing. She was tired, beginning to feel queasy. She was too afraid something would happen if she left the waiting room to go find a vending machine to eat something to stave off her sick feelings. She wasn't sure if they were from an empty stomach or her anxiety. Either way, she was feeling as green as he walls in the waiting room.

"You are not staying here tonight," Gibbs commanded. "There's a hotel on the corner, and Ducky already got you a room. Going there to rest isn't a suggestion."

"I'm not leaving until I know Tim's okay—Tony, too," she insisted. "He's in surgery."

"I know," Gibbs said. "The doctors and nurses are here to take care of them. You're the only one who can take care of your two hitchhikers."

"I know, but…," she began.

"No buts, Abby," Gibbs said. "I mean it. As soon as they put McGee in a regular room, you are going to the hotel. Your babies need you now more than McGee does."

"They need me for me to know that their father is going to be around to meet them," her voice cracked as she tried to swallow a sob. "I still need to call his family."

"I'll take care of that," Gibbs offered. "We're keeping a tight hold on releasing any information right now so it's best not to talk to anyone right now."

"Why?" she sniffled. "Does this have to do with whatever happened at my house? Tim wouldn't tell me anything. We were supposed to talk tonight, but…"

Gibbs sighed and weighed his words carefully. He suspected he was the only person involved in the case at the moment who knew all the pieces and where they fit. It was a tricky situation telling Abby anything. The evidence they were collecting would go through her lab and her husband was one of the centerpieces of the investigation.

"It's an ongoing investigation," Gibbs said. "Need-to-know, Abby. Right now, you need to know that McGee will be okay and that you will be going to lay down pretty soon. As for the rest of it, I'll let you know when there is something I can tell you. Okay?"

Abby sniffled and nodded. She never liked the compartmentalized aspect of her job. Not knowing the whole picture made understanding the picture difficult; however, she also understood why withholding information was sometimes necessary. She just never liked it.

After a few moments or respectable contemplative silence, Gibbs began to shift into working mode again.

"Abby?" Gibbs asked in a calculated tone. "Which of your techs do you trust the most?"

"What?" she wiped her eyes and looked at him oddly. "With what? They are each qualified, but they each have their strengths."

Gibbs shook his head.

"Trust," he repeated. "If you had to trust one of them with your life, with McGee's and Tony's lives, to figure something out and keep it quiet. Who would you choose?"

The answer came to her in a snap and surprised her, but the rapidity of the response told her that was what her gut thought. Seeing as it was Gibbs asking, her gut was the leading authority on this. Others might pause and disagree with her choice. The one who came to mind was the most difficult personality and the least easy to like. He was the outsider, the one who came to NCIS from a college where he spent the first half of his career teaching forensics. He was not enamored with agents and actually disliked a few of them. He was not user friendly and bristled at most people. He was whiny and persnickety and edgy when things did not go according to a proscribed order. Almost no one liked working with him—not even Abby somedays—but at the end of the day she trusted him without question.

"Larry," she said.

She did not get a chance to ask further questions as Gibbs kissed her cheek and said Ducky would be in to sit with her in a moment.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _MTAC_**

Vance stood in front of the big screen facing the lead agent at the Norfolk Field Office, Cassie Yates, and Gibbs. Both looked as weary as the director felt. He had spent an hour with Sec Nav explaining the need to not release any information regarding the explosion and what the agency hoped to gain for leverage by doing so. It was a gamble, but from what the forensic techs were telling him, it was a risk they needed to take.

"So we've seen this signature before," Yates remarked after Vance explained the findings on the bombs thus far. "It's Russian made?"

"More like a Russian made it," Vance said. "Yuri Brusilov is a former Captain in the Russian army—a leading member of their EOD equivalent. According to Interpol, he hung his shingle out for private contract work five years ago. He's a favorite among the cartels in South America for thinning out the competition."

"Doesn't tell us who bought or placed the devices," Gibbs said. "Whoever did it had access to the Norfolk base."

"That's a lot of people to check," Yates whistled lowly as she nodded.

There were over 1500 Navy personnel and more than 8,000 civilians who had some sort of access to the base at any given time.

"Well, at least one of them knew Lt. Commander Scott was using the warehouse space as his home base," Vance said. "The going theory right now is that the devices were placed there after he was taken into NCIS custody. That changes the motivation behind the explosion."

Gibbs sighed. Scott wasn't the target. He was not expected to return after his capture—either because he would be held in NCIS custody or the masterminds behind this had a plan to eliminate him while in custody.

"The explosions were either to destroy his base of operations and whatever evidence he collected or to kill whoever came to collect it," Yates offered.

"Or both," Gibbs said.

"I'm inclined to agree," Vance said.

"What's your feeling on going a step further?" Gibbs asked. "What if we let them believe they were successful for part of it and that we've got them on the other?"

Vance narrowed his eyes in confusion.

"You've lost me," he said.

"It's time to bring someone in for questioning," Gibbs said. "We know his weakness. We know this attack was probably aiming to hit whoever walked in rather than a specific person—but he doesn't have to know that. He also doesn't have to know we lost whatever evidence Lt. Commander Scott gathered. He's the weak link here. Time to exploit that."

"The first domino to topple," Vance nodded. "He may not be in this hemisphere, but even if he is, how to you propose getting him to come in without arousing suspicion?"

Gibbs smiled in a way that concerned him. It was never good when the man grinned.

"Haven't you ever gone deep sea fishing?" Gibbs asked cryptically rather than respond directly.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Portsmith Hospital—Room 312_**

McGee became aware of a voice, sorrowful but indecipherable, speaking somewhere near him. As he strained to listen more closely, as a sharp, piercing sensation along his chest slowly forced his eyes open. A cacophony of sounds assaulted his ears as they warped and blended together. When he finally pried his eyes open, he was breathless from the effort and the weight on his chest. He looked around the dim room and recognized nothing.

His head was hammering, his throat felt like he'd swallowed broken glass, and his vision was blurry. His head was filled with such confusion. As he tried to focus on the room, he determined it wasn't his bedroom (the precise details of which he was having a hard time remembering as it was). He thought he might have been shot. That seemed somehow familiar.

His next thought was of Abby; although, the precise reason for the thought was hazy. There was something about an argument floating just out of reach in his mind. He could vaguely recall something about him mentioning Burt and her getting angry that kept bobbing up in his thoughts.

 _Wait_ , he told himself, _that wasn't recently. That was a long time ago. She's not with Burt. She's with me. We're married._

To reassure himself, he stroked his thumb along the underside of his ring finger to touch the wedding band.

Only, there was nothing there.

He raised his hand and squinted at it to verify, but found nothing on the digit except a large bruise.

His mind whirled frantically as his heart began to race.

 _You didn't imagine all that_ , he told himself slightly fearful that he had. _It was real, not a dream. We're married and we're going to have a family. Right?_

He tried to clear the cobwebs in his head but found just more darkness and confusion. When he tried to shake his head to toss out the panicky feelings, he found a new world of pain and nausea as everything spun around and tipped sideways. He became aware of a tube of some sort snaked along his face near his nose. Reflexively he tried to pull it out.

"McGee, be still," a voice said calmly as he felt a small but strong hand on his forearm stopping his efforts to remove the annoying tube. "You must leave that in place for now."

He dropped his hand and squinted into the darkness to find her face. He instantly knew the voice, slightly accented and rigidly commanding. He had not expected to hear it, but he felt a sense of instant calm upon registering it. Whatever had happened was bad, but he was not in fear for his safety. He obviously had one of the best damn bodyguards on the planet watching over him.

"Ziva," McGee said dryly with relief. "You're here."

"Of course," she replied. "Are you in pain?"

"Uh, yes or… no, I don't know," he said wearily. "What happened?"

"You were hurt," she said simply. "The details do not matter right now. You need to rest so that you will heal quickly."

McGee swallowed painfully as he tried for focus on her face but found he could not. The edges of his vision was too cloudy.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"In the hospital," Ziva replied unhelpfully.

"Is Abby here?" he wondered, feeling an ach in his chest, like some perfect dream was slipping away too fast.

"No," Ziva replied. "It is late. She is sleeping."

She offered the information to settle his mind. He was agitated and confused about where he was and why. Giving him reason to worry about his wife seemed ill-advised. Ziva figured telling him she was comfortably resting would settle him.

McGee heard the answer and crumbled. His head was so warped that he could not make sense of anything. Ziva, he thought, was in Israel. He did not recall going to Israel. He had a vague recollection of going overseas and ending up in a gun battle, but that seemed outlandish, like something out of book he might write.

Then again, he wondered, was any more outlandish than think he had married Abby and they were going to be parents?

The mist in his brain was growing thicker as the heartbreak he felt for the foolishness of his dream pressed down on him. He tried to make sense of where he was and why but the more he struggled to find the answer, the more confused and tired he felt. He had been with someone when he got hurt. He was sure of it. He just could not recall who. Seeing Ziva at his bedside made him wonder if it was Tony, but he did not see or hear Tony. The last time he recalled working with Ziva without Tony was when they were looking for Elan Bodner. That seemed to have been long ago, yet as the pull of unconsciousness yanked hard on McGee's thoughts he wondered if it was more recent than he realized.

As his eyes dropped shut again, Ziva stood over the bed for a few moments more. Her former teammate had an impressive black eye and several other smaller bruises along his cheek and chin. There were bandages on his arm covering several fresh burns and small stitched spots where razor sharp fragments of metal tore into his flesh during the blast. She pulled the curtain separating the two beds in the room and peered at the other occupant.

Tony was asleep as well. His slumber was medically induced from a shot of painkillers dripping at regular intervals into his IV. He, too, was a patchwork of scratches, bruises and burns. In addition to those, his arm was immobilized to keep him from pulling out the stitches from his surgery and to keep the area from being pulled apart yet again. His complexion was wan and dull from the blood loss and trauma he experienced. He looked frozen and feeble laying in the bed so motionless.

"It was very noble and very foolish what you did today," Ziva said softly to both men. "You are lucky you are in the hospital. Otherwise, I believe Gibbs would hit you both sufficiently hard to place you here himself."

She had been at the hospital within two hours of hearing the news. Ducky summoned her, pleading for assistance in getting Abby to Norfolk swiftly. The drive was easy. Two hundred miles of paved interstate was a simple drive; although, she admitted to herself she did most of it on auto pilot. Abby's dread was palpable in the car. Ziva could nearly taste it—along with her own bitter fear. They knew only that Tony and McGee were at ground zero when a bomb went off, and that they were alive when they reached the hospital. Anything more than that during the drive was pure speculation.

Upon arriving, they received the news of their conditions and their prognosis. While Ducky had tended to Abby, trying to make her sit and remain as calm as possible, Ziva had wandered away. Being so far from these people for so long had convinced her that she was an invincible nomad again—someone who needed no one and could live without close ties.

But she knew now that was a lie. There would always be a bond with these people—her team most especially. McGee was a dear friend, someone she contemplated losing a year earlier to great heartache. Tony was…

Tony.

Like herself, she had come to think of him as impervious to the dangers of the world. He was like Teflon. He could slid out of any sticky situation.

Or so she thought until that day.

What he was, she now realized, was simply lucky. A man, like many others, who was adept at assessing a situation and making the best of it. He was strong and capable and clever, but he was also mortal. If what Gibbs said the forensics report showed was accurate, two more seconds and two strides were the difference that day between Tony just needing surgery to fix a broken bone and Tony having his spine and kidneys shredded by shrapnel and dying almost instantly.

Her throat tightened as her heart clenched at the thought of how close he had come this time to…

"I should kill you myself," she said softly without the harsh sentiment the words indicated. "Life is not a movie, Tony. Danger is real and you will not always be so lucky."

That last part was what bothered her most. Sure, seeing him bruised and broken was difficult, but his pulse was steady and strong. The problem was that this could happen again. Considering the state of the world and the focus of his career, it was bound to happen again. The evils of the world far outnumbered the good in it. Her father taught her that. She never wanted to believe it, but looking at her teammate, her friend, her… partner laying in the bed ravaged by the vileness that walked the planet, she knew her father was right.

What she did not know was whether she could stick around to watch it continue. Being many hours away with no reason to see or speak to Tony made pushing him from her mind easier.

She sighed and pulled a chair closer to his bed, occasionally stealing a peek at McGee to verify he was sleeping once again. The anguish on Abby's face that day shook Ziva to her core. She knew the couple adored each other, but seeing the pain in her eyes at the mere thought that the man she loved was suffering struck Ziva silent. That was what love looked like; it was pain, a kind of pain you sought out and clung to because the only thing that hurt worse than feeling that pain was the terrible thought of not feeling it.

What worried her more than Abby's anxiety was her own. What she saw in Abby's expression, Ziva also felt in her own heart.

Of course, that fact alone gave her a host of other reasons to worry. She recalled that previously she needed to isolate herself in a desert to thrust Tony from her mind. She also knew that even the slightest reminder kept him beating strongly in her heart.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Bishop kept her head propped up on her elbow as her lids grew heavy. As the only member of the team at the Navy Yard, a lot of that day's legwork had fallen to her. It was hard enough being in four different places at once (the squad room to do the research Gibbs requested, the lab to check for results, the cyber unit to check on any updates they located while trawling for any uptick in chatter about Norfolk, and the director's office to brief him on all of that). She was about to fall headlong into a coma when someone placed a cup of coffee on her desk.

She was expecting to see Palmer but instead spied a middle aged man wearing a trench coat and going bald on the top.

"Agent Fornell," she blinked and shook herself awake. "Gibbs isn't here."

"I know," he said. "We just talked. I'm here to see you."

"Okay," she nodded. "What can I do for you?"

He smiled in a way that reminded her of Gibbs—the grin that worried everyone because you didn't know what it meant other than you weren't going to like what came next.

"Take a ride with me," the FBI agent said. "Did you eat dinner? I'm starving. Do you mind if we grab a bite along the way?"

As he spoke, he moved toward the elevator and motioned for her to follow. Puzzled but willing to cooperate, Bishop grabbed her bag and started after him. When she arrived, the elevator door had just opened.

"Have you ever been to Duval County, Florida?" he asked.

"Uh, no," she shook her head as they stepped into the elevator. "What's in Duval County?"

Fornell snorted his mirth as the doors slid closed and he continued to grin.

"For starters, there's Little Talbot Island State Park, the Timucaun Ecological and Historic Preserve, Pumpkin Hill Creek Preserve, Neptune Beach and, of course, the Franklin D. Roosevelt and the Shangri-La."

Bishop covered a yawn as she blinked in confusion.

"Roosevelt and Shangri-La?" she questioned. "I don't understand. Are you going to Florida? Because the last time I checked, FDR is dead and buried in New York, and Shangri-La isn't real."

Fornell chuckled and shook his head. He looked at her pityingly.

"I am going to Florida," he offered. "You happen to be coming with me. As for what's there and what's not, you need to do a little more homework. Your two partners might be laid up in the hospital, but I'd be willing to be they both know about the Roosevelt and Shangri-La."

Bishop scrunched her brow and tried to force out the cobwebs. Tony and McGee had drastically opposite fields of expertise and outside interests. Tony was intrigued by film, pop culture, sports, and jazz music. McGee was a science and technology junky with an abiding interest in online gaming. The one thing they had in common was their jobs. Therefore, if those clues were something both Tony and McGee knew, then it involved the office most likely. Before Bishop could root around in her mind further to find the connection, Fornell sighed and let her off the hook.

"They're aircraft carriers, Bishop," he said. "Both have at least two things in common that interest us tonight: First, both are moored at the home port of Mayport, Florida."

She nodded.

"Which is in Duval County," she guessed and received a smile in return.

"One is the current location and the other is the anticipated location of a man we are going to escort back with us," Fornell continued. "We are not arresting him. We are not detaining him, technically. We are going to convince him to help you with the investigation into the terrible tragedy that occurred today."

Her ears perked at the description. The blast was terrible, but from what she heard in her talks with those in Norfolk looking into the matter directly and from Ducky who was reporting her teammates were on the mend, the words everyone was using were miraculous and heroic. She told as much to Fornell.

"Uh huh," he nodded and grinned again. "Terrible tragedy. Agents' lives hanging by a thread, on the brink of death."

"But…," Bishop began only to receive a wag of Fornell's finger.

"From here on out, it is a tragedy and our thoughts and prayers are with the families of those two brave souls who are not expected to see the morning's light," he said in a convincingly solemn voice. "Don't worry. Gibbs is going to explain it all to you. He's meeting us in Jacksonville in the morning."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come.


	51. Chapter 51

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Portsmith Medical Center  
Room 312_**

Morning arrived and departed with the afternoon as a salty breeze from the coast fluttered the flags outside the windows. Ziva, who spent the night sitting in her chair placed strategically between the two beds, stretched the knots from her neck and rubbed her weary eyes throughout the day. She was joined by Abby early in the morning. The two women spoke few words. The patients in the room, both still and oblivious, slumbered on in medically induced stupors.

While Ziva thought it a blessing that neither man was awake to experience any obvious pain or agony, Abby was not so assured. Tony, she could understand. He was doped to the gills on host of heavy meds to deal with the possibilities of infection and to kill the pain of his multiple fractures and emergency surgery. McGee, however, should have been awake she contended. Not accepting the nurse's assessment that his incoherence was abnormal for the type of medication he was being given, the forensic scientist started digging. That resulted in making calls of her own to McGee's normal doctor and, eventually, Dr. Westlake. At the end of that arduous day-long task, McGee was still down for the count. No doubt his body needed the rest to recover from his injuries, but her purposeful deep dive on his medical records revealed a concern noted by the staff at Johns Hopkins the previous year. The high octane pain management of opioids was a bad idea for the fair-skinned patient. As the dinner hour rolled around and he remained all but comatose, his IV was pulled so the drugs could wear off. She went to the hotel (under protest) after Gibbs called and issued his order.

Ziva remained.

She could not recall such a long and motionless day in her life. Even when she was held captive in Somalia, they at least dragged her from her cell and beat her every few hours. Given the fear and despair in her heart as she watched Tony lay motionless in his bed, she would have chosen to go back to her prison. Feeling physical pain was always easier for her.

A call from Gibbs as the sun began to dive for the horizon sent Abby grudgingly back to her hotel for one more night. Both women had wondered where Ducky was throughout the day and only learned from that call that he had boarded a plane with Gibbs early that morning for points unspecified. The women exchanged a glance as Abby departed. Each had the same question in their eyes: If Ducky was traveling with Gibbs, who had died?

Without that answer or any hint whether they would ever find out, the dark hours returned to find Ziva along again in a chair placed between the beds of her two former teammates. She sat vigil there with her painful and penetrating thoughts. She did not fear being alone normally, but be left with only those little voices in her head was a form of torture she did not feel ready to endure. When the staff entered the room again as dawn faded into morning, a nurse noticed blood seeping through the bandages at Tony's shoulder at a level that was not normal. A brief consult with the doctor resulted in him being brought down for an additional x-ray to make sure the plate had not becoming somehow dislodged or was not placing undue strain on his stitches.

While the nurse explained to Ziva it was nothing of concern, the CIA operative insisted on tagging along. Her long and worrisome night had left her with many muddled feelings, but one thing remained unchanged: a long as Tony was not able to watch out for himself, she would do so. He was stirring slightly as they prepared to take him away.

"You're going for a little ride right now, Mr. DiNozzo," the orderly said. "Just lay back, relax, and float along with that nice fresh IV we just gave you."

"I'm an agent afloat again?" he mumbled as his eyes rolled in confusion. "Captain, I should probably tell you: This is the worst cruise I've ever been on."

His gaze was glazed unfocused. His expression was a cross between pained and dopey. His words were thick and slightly slurred from the medications, but it was evidence his mind was ready to begin revving for the day.

"Tony, you are not on a cruise," Ziva assured him. "You are in the hospital. You were hurt. You require an x-ray."

"A ray gun would be cool," he mused as he squinted at her. "Hey, nurse. Anyone ever told that you look like a hot ninja?"

"Tony, I am not a nurse," Ziva offered and blushed slightly as the orderlies helping him onto the gurney chuckled. "I am Ziva."

"Ziva, warrior princess," he grinned and grabbed her hand in a clumsy fashion. "They should make a movie about you."

"I would prefer they do not," she shook her head as she lightly clasped his hand. "Do you understand what I said? You are going for an x-ray. You had surgery on your shoulder. The doctor needs to look at it."

"Know what I need to look at?" he asked in reply. "Area 51."

Ziva blinked as they prepared to wheel him from the room. She looked over her shoulder to see McGee slumbering peacefully oblivious to the discussion. She envied him his tranquility.

"What is Area 51?" she asked, feeling certain she would regret playing along with his inebriated mind.

"It might be where the aliens are," Tony assured her. "Mars needs women, you know."

"Of course," she sighed.

In the hallway, she met Abby fast approaching. Dark circles resided under her eyes and her face was drawn into a worried knot still. She quickened her step as she saw Tony departing. Ziva was able to allay her fears. Tony's persistent chatter about aliens and mothers, suggesting that perhaps Carol McGee was an alien and wondering if they could clone her so Tony wouldn't have to share her cookies with McGee. Hearing that prompted a relieved smile on Abby's face.

As the x-ray bound posse, trekked down the hall, Abby entered the room with the one solitary patient. Per her discussion with the doctor that morning, they intended to release him that day. He would be in pain, but there was no reason he needed around the clock medical attention.

Abby approached the bed and found he was still sleeping. The bruises, cuts, and burns looked worse but her forensics background had expected that. The lack of an IV and the missing oxygen tube were good signs. He just needed to fully wake up and get a once-over by the doctor. Until that happened, she intended to wait by his bedside.

For McGee, waking was a strange situation. He knew instantly something was amiss. First off, he sensed that the room was too bright. His bedroom was normally dark in the early morning hours. Next, he was partially sitting up. His bed did not have the ability to do that. Then there was the ache that squeezed every muscle in his body. With great effort, he unglued his eyelids and looked around the room.

Initially, he saw pale blue walls and a large curtain hanging in the middle of the room. He turned his head slowly to find a pair of innocent yet exotic green eyes stared back at him.

"Hospital," he said in a breathy way.

"Yes, you're in the hospital," Abby said swiftly moving closer and gently clasping his hand. "Do you know why?"

"There was a bomb, but I don't remember it going off," McGee said recalling the frantic moments with Tony in the warehouse. "Did I screw up?"

"No," she assured him. "Gibbs said you and Tony did the right thing."

"Gibbs wasn't there," McGee insisted. "It was me and Tony. Alone."

"I know," she said in a comforting tone as his eyes grew sharper with full consciousness and (evidently) pangs of pain. "There were two devices. One was hidden. You couldn't have known."

"Where's Tony?" he asked as he tried to sit up further then seethed in pain before dropping back to a reclining position. "Tony was with me. He was right behind me. He said…"

"Okay, careful," Abby soothed. "Take it easy. You've got some broken ribs and a lot of bruises. Tony's okay. They just took him for an x-ray a little while ago. He has a few broken bones, but he'll heal. You were both very lucky."

"Doesn't feel lucky," he sighed, fishing around until he found the controller to raise the bed more.

As it moved to a more upright position, McGee closed his eyes to stop the swimming sensation in his head as well as try to remember the second device in the warehouse. He could find no memory of it. His last recollection was of disengaging a pressure plate at Tony's feet. They had squabbled a bit about the best way to do that. Eventually, Tony's low-tech suggestion of simply pushing the firing pin out of the linkage using the plastic of a ballpoint pen won out. McGee had been considering disentangling all the wires, but Tony's successful solution was more to the point and much easier. McGee would have felt badly about missing something so simple, but he had taken care of the timer on the device that was the first problem so he figured they were even in earning their pay that day.

It had nearly be a terrible day, he thought solemnly. They had been so relieved when Tony was able to move without fear of triggering a deadly explosion. How they ended up triggering another, much less surviving it, was something he did not understand.

His brain wanted and needed those answers, but he found what he wanted more was just to stare at Abby gazing back at him with her full attention. He could have done without seeing the worry in her eyes, but the fact that she was there at all was enough for now.

"I had a terrible dream," he said as he fixed his eyes on her again. "I thought the whole last year never happened."

"That was the drugs," she said confidently. "You can't handle the good stuff. No one here would listen to me so I managed to sick Dr. Westlake on them. The high-test stuff is out of your system now. How much pain are you in?"

Each inhale hurt slightly less than the first one, but every movement felt like broken glass was pressing into his sides. Still, in comparison to having his chest cut open and wired back together, a couple broken ribs was nothing.

"I've hurt worse," he said, hoping it sounded more honest than falsely roguish.

In truth, he felt worse when thinking his life with Abby had never happened. It was a different kind of pain—one that cut deeper than any physical ache. Despite his attempt to dispel any worries she had, he saw concern etched deeply in her face as a frown tugged on the corners of her mouth accentuating the dark smudges under her eyes and the weary expression on her face.

"I'm sorry about this," he said, the twinges and aches he felt fading and being replaced by concern for her.

"You don't need to be sorry," Abby said. "I understand what can happen when you go out each day. I don't like it, but I understand."

Her head was already 10 steps ahead for getting him home. She fully expected him to insist she not carter to him or play nurse to him. He had done so when he returned from Dallas the previous year despite needing assistance. He had balked at her help when it became apparent that he was ailing emotionally as well. Given his resistance lately to even letter her walk to the mailbox, letting her take care of him was going to be a struggle.

McGee could saw the firm look in her eyes and misread it. His mind harkened back to their terse words the night Carter Scott was taken into custody.

"I know we need to talk," he said although it came out in such a hesitant and fearful way that it sounded more like a question.

"Not here," she shook her head. "Right now, you need to eat that gruel-like substance they brought you for breakfast. Then I'll help you get dressed, and we'll hopefully be on our way back home."

He considered resisting on both accounts (the breakfast command most of all—gruel was a fair description of the chunky wallpaper paste they were calling oatmeal on his tray); however, the fatigue he saw in Abby's eyes prompted him to capitulate in order to save her the stress and bother of fighting back. As they were in a hospital surrounded by doctors, he was inclined to suggest she check in with one—just as a precaution—but he knew that was likely overboard on his part. He was the one laying a bed bruised, scabbed and broken.

Rather than make things more difficult, he swallowed a few mouthfuls of the slop they called food. Then he allowed her to assist him getting dressed. She had, thoughtfully, brought clothing with her from their house (a suggestion made by Ducky mostly to reassure her there was reason for hope). Like when he was recovering from the shooting the previous year, there was something a bit demoralizing about needing someone to help put on his clothing; although, he found he minded it much less when it was Abby than he did when it was his mother.

"You sure you're okay?" Abby asked noting his pronounced quiet.

He would have shrugged but even the thought of doing so hurt. Instead, he nodded listlessly. Home was where he wanted to be as soon as he saw for himself that Tony was okay.

Not that being home didn't present its own problems. After all, the last time he was there, Abby had been packing her bags.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Hospital Hallway_**

With the x-rays complete and the medical team satisfied the plate bracing Tony's fracture was holding, he was returned to his room. Ziva kept pace with the gurney as Tony serenaded those who they passed with his version of a Bob Dylan song he began spontaneously signing as they wheeled him out of the radiology suite.

"Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door," Tony crooned out of tune.

Eventually, chuckles interrupted the lyrics as the chorus drew to an end. At that moment, a profound expression washed over his face.

"That's weird," Tony observed. "Actually knocking on heaven's door? You'd think God would have a doorbell or a security guard at the gate so you didn't have to knock."

"Yes, Tony," Ziva replied, placating him as there seemed to be no way to derail his nonsensical discussions.

He had talked about socks and why they were funny (flat but round at the same time); about the sky (blue but not always the same so which blue is really sky blue); and about tofu (it's playdough only it tastes worse and is probably where they grow fake flowers). Ziva's patience was worn thin by her exhaustion and the absurd nature of the observations. She was willing to admit she would rather hear about his thoughts on a film that had a hospital, an x-ray, or even a character named Ray. Anything.

"I'm not wearing pants you know," Tony announced to an elderly woman waiting in her doorway as the orderlies paused to avoid a traffic jam of wheelchairs in the hallway. "Boss won't like that when I go to work."

"You are not going to work," Ziva told him for the fifth time. "You are going back to your room where you will rest for the day. Tomorrow, you will be discharged. You will be on medical leave while you heal. You will have plenty of time off to think about aliens, tofu, and socks."

"If I don't go to work, what am I supposed to do?" he asked with a groggy expression. "I can't do nothing. I've seen like every movie ever made… twice. I'll get bored. It'll be like being home sick from school. Are you going to come play with me?"

She blinked and scrunched her brow at the question. She let it slide rather than pursue it further.

"While you are healing, you could learn a new skill," she suggested. "You are always having McGee do your computer work. Perhaps now you can learn to do what he does so well."

"He does Abby," Tony guffawed in a giddy fashion. "She's pregnant with his McMuffins. How am I supposed to do that? First of all, my last name starts with a D."

"I meant you could improve your computer skills," Ziva said firmly while keeping the smirk off her face.

"Do you think he used a computer to do it?" Tony scrunched his brow. "I actually find that more believable than thinking it did it the hands on way. Well, not hands, but you know."

"Yes, Tony, I know," she groaned. "Obviously, you are on the mend since you have sex on the brain again."

"Sex on a train?" he repeated. "I've never had sex on a… Wait, does a rollercoaster car count? That's kind of train like. Only it wasn't moving. It was at this old derelict amusement park on Long Island."

"Shut up, Tony," she said.

They rounded the corner and approached his room once again as Tony began humming in an off-key and loopy way yet again. Ziva walked beside them sporting a suffering expression that stated she was feeling the urge to hurt someone. As they entered the room, Tony's head lolled to the side. Hhe spotted his partner and Abby.

"McGee," Ziva nodded to him. "It is good to see you awake and standing."

"Know what else is good?" Tony offered. "Donuts."

McGee nodded, recalling how Tony behaved on painkillers. When his nose was broken by former Corporal Damen Worth and he was given meds, he spent the entire afternoon answering questions using his Jack Nicholson impersonation.

"Good to see you, Tony," McGee said, opting to ignore the stream of consciousness comment from his partner. "You feeling okay?"

Tony grinned in a drugged but happy way.

"Hey, Probie," he smiled as the orderlies gently moved him into his bed again, making sure to keep his shoulder immobile. "Ziva asked me if… something about… computer and a rollercoaster having sex. I say the answer is tofu. Am I right?"

Abby sat beside McGee on the bed anxiously waiting for the doctor to return with his discharge papers. When she departed with McGee, Ziva would, presumably, stay behind to assist Tony until he was released.

"Aw, they gave you the good stuff, huh?" Abby remarked sympathetically. "You're not in any pain right now, are you?"

"They wanted to take my picture—these nurses can't get enough of me," Tony said proudly then his eyes sharpened as he looked hard at his partner. "Bad guys tried to blow us up, but it didn't work. It's probably because I'm like Ironman."

"Just without being insanely smart or rich," McGee offered.

The commented seemed to earn him a narrowed eyed stare. McGee was ready to apologize for his insensitivity when the real reason behind Tony's scrutiny made itself known.

"Why are you wearing clothes, McTimmy?" he demanded.

"Wow," Abby grinned. "I thought I was the only one who wanted Tim to walk around naked. Do I need to worry about this bromance you two have? If you're going to make a move on my man, Tony, you should know that I don't fight fair."

McGee groaned as his face, still red from the first degree burns he sustained, blushed a deeper shade. He would have grumbled more, but he found Abby's frisky banter slightly reassuring if completely embarrassing.

"You're moving?" Tony asked in confusion, oblivious to the essence of what she said. "You guys haven't even been in that house for year. Why are you leaving now? You can't have people puppies there?"

Ziva choked on her scoff and raised her hand as if to slap him in a scolding but stopped herself. Instead, she raked her fingers through her messy locks.

"People puppies?" she shook her head. "They are called babies, Tony. Infants. Children. There are many words for them. You do not need to refer to them as _puppies_."

"Ziva, you need to save Abby," Tony continued oblivious to his scolding. "I think she's allergic to McGee. She married him and had a bad reaction—look, she got all puffy. It'll be okay, Abby. If they give me some good pills, I'll share."

Abby thanked him without taking offense while Ziva palmed her face in embarrassment for Tony's delirious remarks. She explained that he was given an additional muscle relaxant during the x-rays to lessen the additional muscle tension from the swelling around his newly repaired collarbone. Over all, she reported, the doctor was pleased with the way the injury was healing. It was hoped Tony would be released the following day. Tony, however, did not seem to care. He was more interested in his earlier inquiry.

"Why is McGee wearing clothes when I'm not?" he asked then looked desperately at Abby. "I'm not wearing pants. I don't even know where they are."

"You are not naked," Ziva reminded him.

"Oh, I could be," Tony insisted with a satisfied nod.

McGee grinned and tried not to chuckle. The pain of broken ribs was agonizing any time he took a deep, sudden or shuddering breath. Laughing of any kind was off his to do list for the foreseeable future. However, accomplishing that would also entail being out of touch with Tony while he was on painkillers.

"I'm being discharged, Tony," McGee explained. "I get to go home, but you have to stay another day."

"Yeah, but you're moving so you're not really going home, are you?" Tony scoffed. "Hey guys, you can stay at my place. I don't know about puppies, but I have some fish. You can visit them. It'll be fun. I'm gonna be home sick from school for a while so you guys can come over and play. I think Ziva's babysitting me—she's probably not too nice, either. Just call my dad and ask if he'll pick up to come see me. I've got an amazing movie collection. They're like… films about… people and stuff. Big. Where are we going again?"

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _NA Mayport, FL_**

 ** _NCIS Field Office_**

Ducky sat in the small, dank, dark room opposite an equally humid and horribly smelling interrogation room. Fornell sat beside him, munching quietly on a bag of peanuts with his feet propped up on a chair as though watching a sporting event. In the room beyond the two-way mirror, Gibbs sat opposite a stone-faced officer with a rigid posture and a look of contempt unrivaled in Ducky's decades of observation.

"I was optimistic when we first got here, but I don't think Jethro's going to break this one with just an icy stare or a slight of hand with the evidence," Fornell surmised.

"Agreed," Ducky replied. "Many arrogant men met their doom opposite his stern visage. This man, however, is another creature altogether. He is demonstrating traits of both Narcissistic Personality Disorder with his unmitigated arrogance and what we know of his sensation-seeking or impulsivity. He also displays the charm and manipulative skill of those with psychopathy. He lacks a conscience and empathy for others—he demonstrated that when Gibbs brought up the murder of Mr. Renner and Miss Reeves."

Fornell nodded as he snorted.

"He's sure we don't have enough on him," he said. "And he's right."

"Ah, but he does not know what we know about him," Ducky noted.

"What we know, we can't prove in court," Fornell said. "He's not going to confess to anything. I've seen guys like this before, Doctor. He's going to wait us out and walk, and he knows it."

"He may well believe that, Agent Fornell," Ducky said sagely. "However, belief and fact are not equal in some instances. Your pessimism is no doubt well-founded in your own vast experience, but you are forgetting one thing our suspect has not calculated into over-reaching confidence and assuredness. He is not dealing with just any agent."

Fornell nodded but kept his expression skeptical.

"I've worked with him for years and I don't underestimate him," Fornell said. "But I also know he doesn't' have a letter and a cape on under that shirt and jacket."

"I have learned, in my experience, that superheroes come in many guises," Ducky offered.

On the other side of the glass, Gibbs listened to the plausible explanation of why Rear Admiral Paul Porter had received three calls from Pamela Reeves—the only calls she made upon arriving in the DC area in the days before her murder. He cited a mutual acquaintance from years earlier being the subject of the calls. She was trying to reach the man and wondered if Porter knew how. He even offered a name and said he did not make any effort to locate the man as he recalled the untidy way Reeves departed the Navy.

"You do like things neat, don't you?" Gibbs remarked. "You leave a hell of a mess when you try to clean up though. First Reeves. Then Renner—we know you didn't actually kill him, but you're the reason he died. Did you know he confessed to Agent Bishop here about your cover up from Alameda? I mean the one that happened on the ship with Joaquin Guzman—not the thing about the boys."

There was no flinch, no tell, nothing to show that Porter had reacted outwardly to Gibbs' questioning taunt. Of course, that Ducky knew, was a tell in itself. An innocent man would have asked for clarification or begun demanding more information to plead his blamelessness. However, as discussed with the psychological autopsy specialist before entering the room, Gibbs was merely pushing the right buttons at the right time to get the man primed for the real questions.

Porter sat at an angle to the table. His arms were folded and a bored expression filled his face. It was a round face with reddish cheeks. He had a widow's peak on his forehead as his dark hair was free—probably chemically so—of any hint of gray. His hands were perfectly manicured, and his white uniform was pristine. His eyes were sharp and his posture perfect.

"Rifat Abadi, age seven," Gibbs said sliding a picture across the table from the file at his fingertips. "Kid had something of a hard life. His mother, Rasha, was a student who left Syria at age 15 to visit her aunt in Sweden. The aunt kept her there hoping to give Rasha a better life in her adopted country. She finished school and started college. She married a Swedish national named Sven. He was killed in a car accident just after their second anniversary, about a month before their son Rifat was born. Rasha's aunt was in the car with him. With no family left, she went home to her mother in Syria."

"That's a sad story," Porter said without sounding like it was at all. "Am I accused of driving the car that killed Sven?"

Gibbs chuckled humorlessly.

"No, you had other lives you were running back in 2009," he offered.

"Rifat had it rough," Bishop said, pulling Porter's attention to her. "Being a fair-skinned child with light eyes in Syria kind of made him stand out. His mother's marriage wasn't recognized and he was considered… Well, let's just say he didn't have a lot of friends. When the civil war resulted in droves of Syrians fleeing for their lives, Rifat and his mother were among them. You might recall him from this summer—your ship took him and a few survivors out of the water after the boat they were using capsized. Rasha drown."

Porter gave her a blank gaze, as expected. The photo in front of him was of a child with dark hair sun-bleached to a light cinnamon shade, light eyes as deep and hollow as dry well, and pale skin that only emphasized the deadness of his stare into the camera.

"We saved quite a few people during the exodus last summer," Porter said. "I personally received a commendation from the U.N. thanking me for our efforts and my leadership during that crisis."

"Rifat isn't what you'd call thankful," Bishop replied. "That's a traumatized little boy who had a terrible story to tell about an officer taking him onboard his ship—your ship—and molesting him."

Porter snorted and rolled his eyes.

"That is a small child who lived through massive bombings so horrific his mother put him in a doomed boat thinking they could brave the deadly seas," Porter countered. "His mother drown in front of him. I do not doubt he is traumatized. I think we just have a different understanding of his reasons."

Bishop looked to Gibbs who had pulled out more photos. Rifat, in truth, was not speaking yet and had not identified the man who molested him beyond pointing to a US Navy insignia for a two-star admiral. While that was Porter's rank, it was hardly enough for an identification.

His arms remained folded and he looked on the verge of yawning.

"Agent Gibbs, we've been at this for two hours," Porter said. "I indulged you as a courtesy to NCIS in an effort to serve as a role model for my men to cooperate with professionalism. If you insist on wasting my time any longer, I suggest you present me with a reason to remain sitting here."

Gibbs smirked. This was the point Ducky told him to wait for—the moment when the man signaled he was done listening. It was not going to be a heated or intense request to end the interview, the medical examiner said. It would be a chiding, dismissing way. Once that point was reached, he would actually be vulnerable, just not to an aggressive attack of harsh and loud accusations. As Ducky diagnosed, this was required a slightly different touch.

"My time?" Gibbs repeated and appeared to take a steadying breath as he scrubbed his hand across his face as though trying to steady his nerves. "Time's pretty much all I've got now that my team… My team…"

He appeared to choke on the last word. It was so believable that Bishop even turned suddenly to look at him and looked sincerely concerned. Gibbs held up his hand to hold her off.

"You'll have to excuse Agent Bishop," Gibbs said tightly. "It's been a couple rough days. She's had to assume more responsibility than her years would dictate was wise."

"Youth is a gift but it can be a detriment," Porter replied sounding professorial as he offered Gibbs a calculated look. "You have other agents on your team who surely can assist her and mentor her."

"Had," Gibbs said quietly. "Agent Bishop, will do fine in her unanticipated promotion to senior field agent. It's my experience that tragedy is cruel but effective teacher."

Bishop bit her lip as she looked down at the floor, not sure she could offer the expression needed to sell the moment Gibbs was teeing up. She found averting her eyes best as she folded her arms and slouched back against the wall as she felt a heavy and questioning stare from Porter.

"What tragedy?" he asked.

"My team," Gibbs said then shook his head as if determined to go on. "I won't keep you much longer, Admiral. Just a few more questions. First, how would you describe your relationship with John McGee?"

For the first time, Porter jolted. It was an odd jump in his seat and a startled look on his face. Gibbs slid a picture of the man, the one used on his obituary, toward Porter.

"He was a good friend," Porter said.

"He was a mentor of sorts for you despite being in the same age," Gibbs offered. "I can see why. John had everything you ever wanted. Promoted below the zone multiple times. Tough, smart, demanding, commanding, and respected, too. From the very start, good old John was a man going places, and you followed."

Porter put his eyes on his dead friend and tilted his head slightly. Gibbs then pulled out another photo, one Bishop had (under protest) copied from one of McGee's Facebook albums. It was the picture of a young naval officer and his family: John McGee standing behind his wife, who sat in a chair holding their infant daughter, while their son stood beside his mother with his father's hand strategically on his shoulder. Porter brushed his fingers over the glossy reprint as his expression softened.

"You can pay the man the respect he is due and refer to him properly as Admiral McGee," Porter said sourly.

"Respect?" Gibbs laughed. "He's dead so I can pretty much call him whatever I like, especially seeing how I thought the guy was a blowhard and four-star sonofabitch—and that was before I met him. Afterward, I realized he was just a fool. I mean, look at that family. He threw that away. Just chucked it all to get a few commissions. I just don't get that. Do you? How cold hearted does a guy have to leave that behind just to ride around on a boat?"

Porter's eyes betrayed him. They lingered for a moment too long on the picture. His fingers rested so close to the image of the little boy, yet not touching him despite an apparent desire to do so. Bishop had objected to using McGee's family photo in this way, knowing it would need to be disclosed in the reports afterward and thus drag her partner into this mess (the lifelong twisted crush this man had on him which McGee was luckily oblivious to so far). However, Ducky assured her that if what they knew and believed about Porter was true that the photo was necessary. He also offered her the small consolation that even presence of John McGee in the photo would at least stop Porter from grazing his fingers across the image of her fellow agent and leave him still untouched by the man.

"John was a spectacular officer," Porter said, but his voice was softer despite his adamancy. "However, that came with a price. He was not a stellar family man."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Gibbs scoffed. "I've had to spend a decade fixing the damage he did to one of his kids, and now… Well, that was all for nothing."

"You meant Timothy," Porter shook his head. "Like John, you are a fool, Agent Gibbs. He is perfect as he is, as he always has been. From the first moment I met the family, I could see Timothy was special."

"Yes," Gibbs said solemnly as he swallowed thickly. "Yes, he was. I think we all forgot that for a while. Then last year happened."

He placed more photos on the table. They were screen captures from a cameras that recorded an open heart procedure. They were bloody affairs showing doctors in red-spattered gowns elbow deep in a chest with ribs cut in two. The insides showed more than the patient's outside, which was good as the photos were from a medical school's training materials rather than any procedure done on McGee. Porter shuddered at the sight, his red cheeks growing brighter as the slightest hint sweat appeared on his upper lip. His breathing changed as he winced at what he saw.

Next Gibbs placed a spent round on the table. He looked at it while shaking his head.

"That right there," he said. "That should have done him in a year ago in May. It took doctors 19 hours—five on your ship and another 14 in Germany to pull that out and repair all the damage it did. They cut him in half; they held his heart in their hands, literally. All that from this little thing. A bullet fired by a guy whose name we never learned for reasons that were never Tim's fault. I sat by his bed and watched while he struggled and suffered through all of that—and everything that came after. He didn't do anything to earn that."

Porter shook his head and swallowed agitatedly. He tugged slightly on his collar as the redness in his face grew.

"No, he didn't," Porter said quietly. "Your job is to punish whoever did that to him."

"Well, someone did," Gibbs noted. "Both shooters died on site. Tim lived. You made that possible. In a way, you saved him."

Porter nodded and sniffed. He took a shaky breath.

"I did everything I could," he said quickly. "I… I was appalled at what they had done. There was no reason for… That is, he posed no threat to anyone. He deserved to live."

"It meant a lot to you that you could save him," Gibbs encouraged. "You did more than most people would ever think of doing. You cared for him—more than his own father did."

Porter stared at the photo of the family again with a distant gaze.

"John never loved him enough," Porter shook his head. "He could never see how lucky he was to have such a precocious child. Timothy was bright but also sweet, a caring child so different from the cold and tactless ways of his father. I always tried to make John see how precious Timothy was, but all he saw was how different the boy was from what John wanted. I knew that those differences were what made him beautiful."

In the corner, Bishop swallowed dryly as a sour taste filled her mouth. Both Tony and McGee warned her long before she went to the Academy that nothing would tax her resolve or make her more revolted than hearing a pedophile talk about his desires. The man had not yet said anything with much detail and already she wanted to lose her lunch. She wondered if that was in part due to her friendship with the object of the man's fantasies, but realized it was not—not entirely. The dream that ensorcelled this man was not McGee at all. It was the story, the fictions and illusions, he thought of as McGee which his sick mind created to satisfy his evil and felonious urges.

"And then someone did this to him," Gibbs said, noting the tremors in Porter's hands. "Who was it?"

Porter shook his head. He closed his eyes and looked away from the photos.

"You don't care?" Gibbs challenged. "Is that it? All this talk about understanding him better than his father, caring for him… loving him, that's all a lie isn't it?"

Porter shook his head more. His lips were pressed tightly together as sweat began to trickle off his brow as his breathing became harder.

"It must be a lie because if you loved him, really and truly loved him, you would want justice for what they did to him," Gibbs said lowering his voice. "They left him with scars, terrible, deep scars on his skin and in his mind. They hurt him, and you let them do it. In fact, they did it just to hurt you. You're the reason this happened to him."

"No," Porter said with clenched teeth. "I never wanted him to get hurt. Ever. By anyone. Not John. Not… anyone."

"Sure you did," Gibbs said, tapping the pictures. "You didn't care enough to stop it. You helped him after it was done, but that was just guilt."

Porter seethed.

"You don't understand," he said. "The world is a dangerous place. I can't…. They… I never wanted them to…"

"What?" Gibbs barked. "You never wanted them to hurt him? Who are they? You know who they are. You're the one who set him up! You knew what they were going to do to him—that's why you hauled your perverted, desk-riding ass out of the Indian Ocean. Did you want to watch it happen?"

"No," he gasped.

"So that dinner on the boat the night before was your personal goodbye?" Gibbs asked.

"No," Porter insisted. "I wanted him to stay. I told him he should. He wouldn't listen. He never listened to me."

Gibbs scoffed and shook his head.

"You're a Rear Admiral in the US Navy," he charged. "You could have ordered him to stay on the ship—you were the ranking officer aboard. Instead, you let him go. You probably watched him with a pair of binoculars from the bridge get on that chopper. You let him walk right into that trap. That's not love. I don't know what it is, but it sure as hell isn't love."

Porter shoved the photos back at Gibbs as he turned to glare at him.

"What would you know about love, Agent Gibbs," he said. "I've heard plenty about you. Mr. Tough Love, who smacks his agents in the head to get their attention. You treat them like little toy soldiers. You wind them up and send them to their slaughter. How many have you buried? At least, I saved Timothy!"

Gibbs scoffed then shook his head.

"Saved?" he repeated as he spoke in a quiet voice. "You delayed the inevitable. You're protecting the men who did this. That's why I know you never loved him. If you love someone, you protect them. You don't send them to the slaughter—you certainly don't do it twice. I guess that's the one good thing to come of all this. He never has to know that you're the one who betrayed him."

Gibbs nodded to Bishop. She pulled out her phone and played an audio file. It was the last few seconds of the recording from McGee's and Tony's transmission while diffusing the bomb—edited a bit for effect, leaving in the fear in their voices and Tony's plea for McGee to depart followed by his refusal to do so. Many other bits of the conversation were removed but the deafening explosion that ended the recording was amplified.

"What was that?" Porter asked in a choking voice.

"That's the last 30 seconds of Special Agent Timothy McGee's life," Gibbs said sorrowfully. "You asked how many of my agents I've buried. The answer is too many, and now I've got two more. He and his partner died on Monday afternoon in the explosion at Norfolk."

Porter gasped. He began to tremble as he shook his head in disbelief. His coloring grew darker and sicklier. The beads of sweat on his face swelled as his eyes shifted wildly. He looked from Gibbs to Bishop for some sign he heard wrong.

"No," he said. "This isn't true. He didn't…. He couldn't have. I would have heard."

"For reasons of national security at the order of the Secretary of the Navy, the names and numbers of casualties have not been released," Bishop said on cue. "You had an entire year to come clean and tell us what really happened in Afghanistan and why, Admiral. You had a whole year to help track down the men behind the first attempt on Tim's life. Only you didn't. You kept quiet, and now he's gone."

Gibbs nodded gathering up the photos but leaving the family picture on the top. He then drew out a piece of paper and placed it beside the photo. Porter's eyes grew as wide as saucers as he read the death certificate of Timothy Farragut McGee. The trembling admiral gasped then appeared to gag.

"This is what your silence did," Gibbs said tapping McGee's name on the document. "This is your fault. I lost half of my team two days ago. They were first shredded by shrapnel and next burned by the fireball. Tim's body is so badly damaged my medical examiner forbid his family from seeing him, but I got him to make an exception for you."

He then pulled out the photo of the burned body they once thought was Tony when a rogue CIA operative rigged his car to explode. The blackened corpse was charred and unrecognizable. Porter quaked as he continued to shake his head insistently while muttering the word no over and over again under his breath.

"Yes!" Gibbs shouted slamming his hand onto the table before picking up the family photo and the burn victim and holding them up to Porter's eyes. "Tell me who did this! I want to know who ordered this! You give me a name! I need to find this man. You tell me who it is. You owe that to your beloved Timothy!"

Tears began streaming down Porter's face as his breathing grew rapid and irregular. He tried to pull his eyes away as he yanked on the top button of his uniform when he began gasping. He muttered a three names that Gibbs leaned over the table to hear just as there was pounding on the mirror behind them. Presently, the door to the interrogation room flew open and Ducky stepped in with an order for Gibbs to step back.

"I think he's having a heart attack," Ducky said as he looked to Fornell. "Get their medical team here. Now."

Gibbs stepped back, watching as Bishop helped Ducky lower the man to the floor and begin loosening his buttons while making his medical assessment. As he felt for a pulse and checked his watch, Ducky chanced a look at Gibbs. He looked directly at the flailing and failing admiral with a gaze that lacked all pity and sympathy.

"Mark, Pete, and Paolo," Gibbs repeated the names Porter had uttered. "That'll do for now."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Abby and McGee's House_**

The ride from Norfolk was quiet. McGee would have offered to drive, but Abby's stern glare when before he fully got the sentence out silenced him. Once in the car, he realized how foolish it was to even entertain uttering the offer. Just getting out of the wheelchair that took him to the front door and climbing into the front seat left him with a jaw clenched in pain and his vision going double for a few minutes.

As for the rest of the ride, he felt wretched—and only partly because of his injuries.

He had begun to imagine what it was like for her receiving the information about the incident in Norfolk. She worried about agents all the time—too much, he previously would have argued, but now he would sound like an idiot to say so. In the short span of year, he had nearly died twice. Tony had joked about their lives looking like TV season finale cliffhangers. At the time, it seemed funny. Now, it just seemed sadly true.

He knew he dosed part of the way, only coming to as they reached I-395 outside Alexandria. He watched the hot summer haze roil off the pavement as the air conditioner droned on ineffectively. The sun beat down on the community area of the Capital as they eventually neared the quiet street in Arlington. Getting out of the car was a lesson in pain, but he clenched his jaw to hold back a yelp to keep from worrying her more.

McGee could see the drain of the previous few days on her drawn and haggard face. Between the heat, the travel, and the worry, his concern for her was rising. He feared any sign he displayed of discomfort would simply increase the burden on her. As if on cue (and without being asked), she ushered him into the house and directed him toward the stairs.

"I can make it up stairs on my own," he said lightly. "You can spend the rest of the afternoon doing… whatever it is you need or want to do."

"Well, I need to take care of you so let's go," she gestured.

"You don't," he shook his head. "I'll be fine. Honest."

She acted as if she did not hear and led him to their room. The air was stuffy so she set about opening the window and turning on a fan. She pulled open the curtains to let the air flow more freely as McGee settled himself on their bed and tried hard not to look at the bag still sitting on the dresser.

"You're still way too quiet," she observed. "What's wrong?"

The urge to say nothing was strong, but he figured he had been less than truthful with her enough for the year with the mess involving his friend Carter. He owed her the honesty even if her answers pained him.

"I saw your bag the other day," he admitted, jerking his chin toward it. "I know you're mad at me, but I didn't think you were that mad. If you can't be around me, I'll be the one who goes. You don't need to leave the house."

She blinked and looked at him with an exceptionally lost expression. She followed his gesture then fixed him with an odd look that he did not understand. Her mouth was turned down in a disappointed frown but her eyes crinkled the way they did when she was on the verge of laughing. She walked across the room and retrieved the satchel then set it on the bed near his feet.

"This bag?" she repeated as she fought to keep a chuckle out of her voice.

McGee nodded. He wasn't sure how she could find this funny. Being mad at him was one thing. Leaving, even if she only planned to be gone a day or two, was a lot more serious than exchanging grumpy, emotional words with each other.

"Uh, yeah, I am packing," Abby informed him as she continued to smile. "Did you look in it?"

"No," he shook his head. "I just saw it and…"

"And assumed, naturally because you worry too much, that it meant I was leaving you," she said as she rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Let me ask you something: Are you sure you're not leaving me first?"

McGee blinked and shook his head shocked at the question.

"What?" he gaped. "No. Abby, I would never. Why would you…?"

Before he could finish the question, she reached into the collar of her shirt and fished out a long black cord that hung there like a necklace. On the end of it, dangled his wedding ring along with hers and her engagement ring.

"You left your wedding ring on the dresser," she said swinging it to and fro slightly. "Now, if I was a professional worrywart, rather than a scientist, I might have jumped to the hasty conclusion that leaving it behind meant you were leaving me behind; however, I paid attention to evidence. Do you know what the evidence told me?"

McGee held up his bruised hand, the one he hurt several days earlier decking a good friend.

"That I broke my finger and needed to take it off so the doctor didn't need to cut it off?" he suggested.

Abby nodded then tucked the pendulum into her shirt again. She fixed him with her hypnotic gaze, the one that usually made his knees a bit like jelly.

"Precisely," she said confidently. "By the way, I took mine off for the same reason—just a different cause for the swelling. Let me know when your hand is better so I can give yours back. Now, as for my bag, I'm not the special agent in the room. I'm also not the best-selling author of a detective novel. However, if I was either of those things, I might have looked for another explanation regarding this suspect bag. You missed a very big clue, McGee."

McGee quirked up his eyebrow, a gesture that hurt a bit due to the swelling and bruising around that eye. Without thinking, he shrugged his ignorance, seething at the sharp stab of pain long his ribcage. Abby offered him a pitying look as she stepped closer with the bag.

"I'll let this slide since you have a concussion—even though you should have figured it out long before that happened," she said in a conspiratorial tone as she patted her bulging middle. "The big clue is the one that keeps getting bigger. So, let's look at what's inside the bag."

As she spoke, she dumped out the contents onto the bed and identified them.

"We have your long sleeve FLETC T-shirt that I wear to bed in cold weather," Abby said. "Also a pair of forgiving and comfy yoga pants—a gift to me from your sister recently. And oh look, a cute little set of pink PJs and a matching set of blue ones. This is not me preparing to disappear into the night. This is me packing a bag because in a few months, I'll be having my own grab your gear moment. It's my hospital bag, Tim. As I think of things I need to bring with me, I'm tossing them into my bag so I don't forget anything."

McGee sighed with relief, feeling exceptionally happy and immensely thick. For someone who searched peoples' homes and possessions as part of his job, it hadn't occurred to him to rifle through his wife's bag, and he said as much.

"That is because you are a gentleman," she said as she threw the items back into the satchel then sat on the edge of the bed beside him. "A slightly neurotic and mildly insecure gentleman, but a gentleman nonetheless. What actually concerns me is that you may also be going a bit blind, McGee. That bag has been sitting either on the dresser or on the floor for like a month already. Sunday was really the first time you noticed it?"

He hung his head in mild shame then kissed her forehead.

"I'm an idiot," he admitted sheepishly as he sighed with immeasurable relief. "I'd hug you right now, but I'm not dumb enough to cause myself that much pain."

Abby sighed and gripping his unbroken hand tightly. She looked deeply into his eyes and sighed contentedly.

"Let's get one thing straight," she said. "Even when I'm angry with you and want to be away from you, I'm never going to leave you. I said _I do_ to our vows when I married you. Not _I have_ or _I might_. I said _I do_ , present tense, as in always the same no matter the hour, no matter the day, and not going to change—ever. I get that whatever has been going for you at work has you on edge, and that whatever it is that you're not telling me is all that on your mind lately, but here is what I know in my soul and what I hope you know in your heart. I might have taken my time learning what you meant to me, but once I know something, I don't forget it. Once I love something, I never let it go. You're mine, Timothy McGee—forever. I'm going to stick with you like… octyl cyanoacrylate."

She punctuated the assertion with a definite nod. Painful though it was to move most of his facial muscles to any large degree, a smile blossomed over his face as he translated her claim.

"Medical superglue," he nodded approvingly. "Gotcha."

"Now," she insisted crawling over his legs to take a seat beside him on the bed. "Start talking, Mister."

"Abby," he sighed. "I know I said I'd tell you everything, but I don't know how much Gibbs is…"

"No," she cut him off. "I mean, yes, I want to know that, but that's not what I'm talking about right now. I just need you to talk about… anything."

McGee looked at her oddly. As concussions go, his was relatively mild—particularly in comparison to Tony's. However, he was having a hard time figuring out what she wanted.

"You've sort of been gone for a week and a half," she reminded him. "You were in Puerto Rico for a week, got home late, and we haven't seen each other all that much since then. Our children have ears now. Granted, what they hear is muffled and filtered through amniotic fluid, but that doesn't mean they can't hear. They're used to hearing your voice every day, and suddenly you were gone. You need to let them know that you're back."

He smirked feeling too tired to hold a conversation of any merit. He tipped his head back to rest on the headboard as he gingerly draped his arm around her while pleaded his mind was too blank to pick a subject for discussion.

"Sarah told me you can recite ' _Fox In Socks_ ' in its entirety," Abby offered. "She claimed that you read it to her ten thousand times when she was little."

"Twelve thousand," McGee yawned as he smiled at the memory. "She wouldn't go to sleep without hearing it at least once. Once when we moved when she was around six, she lost her book. I didn't need it by then to know all the words so I started just reciting it to her from memory."

"I've known you for more than a dozen years, been married to you for nearly nine months, and only last week I found out from your sister that you are a master pillow fort architect and you can recite Dr. Seuss from memory," Abby noted.

"And?" McGee wondered, feeling she was building up to something.

"And, it tells me two very important things," then kissed him lightly on the cheek. "One, I absolutely found my soulmate, and two, you've been holding out on me. Once your ribs are healed, you owe me a fort. For now, recite for our children the part about the Tweedle Beetle Battle. That was always my favorite part."

McGee smiled thinking it was his, too.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Vance's Office_**

With half of his major case response team on the disabled list for the foreseeable future, he was left with few options. The preliminary reports on the explosion in Norfolk were on his desk, and there was disturbing news out of Florida. The only thing that seemed to be going well was Gibbs's suggestion on smoking out the mole at NCIS.

With the help of one of Abby's lab techs in writing a program that would siphon off every email sent within the NCIS network mentioning the explosion in Norfolk or looking for details, Vance now had his leak. That it was so close to the investigation was both disheartening and, in the end, predictable. The most successful traitors were always the ones you never expected. Unlike when Agent Lee first came onto Vance's radar, this one was never under suspicion.

Until now.

But that was a matter for when Gibbs returned. He would be short-handed for a while with his team down to half-strength for the foreseeable future. However, Vance now had round the clock eyes and ears on his internal target and he felt certain no more harm would be done, which was good because they were nearly out of cards to play.

His explanation of that to the special counsel did not take it well. In fact, Vance was wondering if he would need to summon someone to treat Parson's for hyperventilation if his breathing grew any more labored and his face got any redder with his anger.

"You've lost your two witness to the cold case out of San Francisco and now the leading Navy suspect in my drug ring investigation is on life support?" Parsons seethed. "I learned there was value in Gibbs' over the top approach at times, but I'm back to questioning his abilities."

"According to his treating physician, Admiral Porter was a walking time bomb with clogged arteries and a 3-pack per day smoking habit," Vance stated. "The man dragged a cardiologist around with him wherever he went. He was expecting this to happen someday. Unfortunately, someday ended up being today."

"They're not overly hopeful for his recovery?" Parson wondered.

"No," Vance replied. "His heart is failing and he isn't a good candidate for a transplant, even if one was available. I don't know if he'll regain consciousness, but I don't see him giving us much more we can use. I know it's no consolation for all the people he's harmed, but there may be some merit in not bringing his deeds to light. It saves his victims from having to come forward publically."

Parsons sighed and shook his head.

"So after everything that's happened, you've got nothing," he snarled.

"We've got the three names Porter spoke," Vance insisted. "Mark, Pete, and Paolo. That's not nothing."

Parsons scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"Two apostles and someone who sounds like an Italian playboy," he grumbled. "That's not enough for an indictment. It's not enough to keep the investigation open."

"We're banking that Peter is Mr. Colson," Vance said. "The resources of your office should be able to track him down. We've got some interest in why a gun we believe he stole from his stepfather put a couple bullets into one of my agents, but since we got the actual shooter we can leave you to deal with Mr. Colson's other activities. As for Mark and Paolo, we have a line on them."

Parsons shook his head at the tenuous web that Vance seemed to feel was strong enough to net and snare one of the largest and longest running drug rings in US history.

"Mark Johnson, the former Congressman and DEA agent who worked in California during the 1980s?" Parsons guessed. "Yeah, I'm certain he's dirty. I can prove it—or I will be able to soon, but he's just the traffic cop for once the drugs get into the country. I want the head of the pyramid, Director. Do you think your team can avoid blundering into my investigation any further and stop getting my suspects and witnesses killed?"

Vance took the shot but did not defend against it. He stood by his team and their results.

"I don't know, Counselor," he said facetiously. "That's a tall order. I'd hate to make you promises we can't keep."

"If I Colson, then we can get Johnson, his uncle," Parsons nodded. "We can roll up the family business, but I want the international connection—the supplier. You mentioned one name I do not know so I'm wondering how he fits in. Who is Paolo?"

"I'll get back to you on that one," Vance said plainly.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** Just a little bit more to come.


	52. Chapter 52

**_Note:_** _I've got to travel across the country for my last book in a few days so there won't be a chapter next week since I will be away working on my professional writing endeavors. Consider this a little 2-3 week hiatus. Be patient, the last few chapters will be on their way shortly. Thanks for hanging in there this long._

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

Gibbs stepped off the elevator with a flat, almost murderous expression.

There was no one he wanted dead… yet. He wasn't pleased he had pushed Porter into a heart attack—although Ducky made a pretty strong argument the man's health and stress levels even before the confrontation were likely a recipe for imminent disaster even from just climbing a flight a stairs. Still, Gibbs had pushed—and he pushed hard.

He did so for a few reasons. First, the man was responsible for keeping a multi-million dollar drug ring running in the US Navy. That cost countless lives no doubt. Next, he was flat out and unremorsefully evil. He had violated children—unknown numbers of little boys permanently scarred for life because that sick predator couldn't keep his hands to himself. He was the reason (perhaps even the mastermind) behind the murder of Pamela Reeves and that of Kyle Renner while in NCIS custody.

Lastly, he was the reason members of team Gibbs's nearly died—at the warehouse bombing most recently, before that while escorting Reeves, and prior to that in a little communications room at the center of a desolate little outpost in Helmand Province the previous year. No, Gibbs did not feel badly that Porter was hooked up to machines while his heart slowly forgot how to beat and wound down his final days in medical solitude without anyone bothering to care he would soon breath his last. The only regret the veteran agent felt was that the bastard hadn't suffered more and that he hadn't given up more information prior to keeling over.

Fortunately, a call from Vance the previous evening let Gibbs know that Sec Nav felt the same way.

It was agreed that the perverted bastard deserved his end, but all felt it equally unfortunate that he didn't give up all he knew. Still, the names he offered were something. Gibbs's conversations with Vance since returning to the District let him know NCIS was in doghouse with Parsons while becoming something of like a cult hero with the FBI. Fornell reported his team felt collectively that all pedophiles should be interrogated into coronaries Gibbs' style without leaving a mark or a chance for recovery.

For a week that started on such an up note (finding and securing the safety of Carter Scott), it had swung swiftly toward tragedy with the explosion at Norfolk and ended in a virtual dead end with Porter on life support in Florida. As the end of that rollercoaster week rolled around, Gibbs wasn't sure what to expect from the last workday as he stepped into the squad room. He expected to find the desks of his agents empty, but yet another unexpected twist met his eyes.

"McGee?" Gibbs asked seeing the agent sitting at his computer. "What are you doing here?"

"I was reviewing the …," the younger agent began but stopped as his boss's expression gave further nuance to the question. "You mean as in why am I here at the office. Well, I didn't see a reason to stay home another day. I was home all yesterday and the day before. I'm fine to sit here and do research, Boss."

"Go home," Gibbs ordered.

"I can't," McGee replied. "I mean, I could, I suppose. I just meant that I have nothing to do."

"That's the point," Gibbs replied. "You've got broken ribs. You can't do much here. Take a day or two more. Go home. Go… play with your video games."

"I can't because I'm dead," McGee said and earned a raised eyebrow look of confusion in return. "I mean, the avatar I created the other day. Well, that Abby and I created. She stayed home with me the last couple days as well. It got pretty boring since she wouldn't let me do anything so we went online. It was kind of funny at first, creating a new character. We decided to invade Holly Snow's kingdom—well, it wasn't supposed to be an invasion but then things turned a little competitive. Anyway, Holly killed me by accident and now her Queen is trapped in a pit of never-ending solitude."

Gibbs continued to stare. More than a decade of listening to this sort of rambling and these types of details and he still did not get the appeal. Even when McGee played his more war-like games, it still baffled Gibbs. Why anyone would purposefully seek war and consider it entertaining was something he did not understand, but beyond that, having it in a virtual realm rather than a real one that had any connection to reality just made it even harder to grasp.

"Then go read a book, Tim," Gibbs said rather than seek further clarification. "Hell, go write one. Just go home."

McGee did not reply instantly. While he had no intention of going home so early in the day, he also knew saying so would be unwise. Arguing with Gibbs would serve no purpose, just like leaving for the day would be equally futile. He fought this precise battle with Abby that morning and won, sort of. She also believed he should stay home, but she knew of no way to keep him there short of handcuffing him to their bed and removing all implements within reach that could be used to free himself. Instead, she insisted on driving and vowed to do periodic check-ins with him throughout the day. McGee agreed to the plan if only because it would permit him to do the same to her. With the onset of the latest sweltering patch of heat, she was not sleeping well and the stress of the previous week was visibly wearing on her and worrying him.

"I'd rather work," McGee said. "If you send me home, I'll just tunnel in through the agency's firewall and work remotely anyway. I figure if I work from my desk, then no one on the cyber security team will waste a few hours trying to determine if someone breached the agency's security. So it's less work and better for everyone if I stay here."

Gibbs sighed and rolled his eyes. He wasn't sure what worried him more, his agent confessing without a hint of worry that he could dismantle their technology barricades as though they did not exist or the fact that McGee spent time weighing the pros and cons of the endeavor only to determine it was simply best all-around if he just came into the office rather than commit an easy felony from home.

Actually, Gibbs realized as he turned on his own computer, what worried him most was how normal all of that seemed.

"You're benched until you're medically cleared again," Gibbs reminded him rather than ruminate on the issue further. "The squad room, lab, autopsy, and MTAC are your only passes."

"Not the evidence garage?" McGee asked for clarification.

"Did I say evidence garage, McGee?" Gibbs replied.

"No," he shook his head. "I was just wondering if you forgot to… Never mind. You said those places only. Gotcha. Um, Boss, why?"

Gibbs sighed and looked at his eager agent. Tony might love the physical chase in the heat of a case, the up-close and personal aspect of breaking a suspect, the legwork that made him a great cop, more than McGee, but Gibbs never met any agent who loved being useful and needed to be needed more than Tony's probie. Gibbs knew McGee's need stemmed from a lifetime of feeling like he had to prove that he belonged where he wanted to be. Among techies, he held an elevated (one might even say at times exulted) status, but around agents there was always the hint of a desire to prove himself. Even now in this room, a dozen years into a career as a full time field agent with some pretty big cases to his credit and more than enough battle scars to support his creds, the wisps of worry and a faint desire for acceptance remained.

And Gibbs knew why in this instance.

"You did the right thing in Norfolk," Gibbs told him. "It was smart what you did with the batteries from your comm links and the phone gadget. Leave all of that to the lab techs to pick through. If they have questions, they'll ask."

McGee nodded. He had seen indications of that opinion in the few scattered reports he had managed to find on the server that morning, but hearing it from Gibbs was the confirmation he needed. Still, being banned from the area that held the physical evidence felt a bit like punishment.

He had a session with Cranston the day before—his first in several months—as a precaution. She felt he was coping well with the week's events but recommended he keep in touch to be certain that was the case. She also warned him there was a chance others around him might be a bit overprotective given that two near-death experiences in just over a year's time would make anyone cautious and worried. He had seen it already from Abby. He suspected that was what he was hearing from Gibbs. Of the two of them, he was more comfortable with Gibbs' worry.

"Any chance you can give the same take it easy order to Abby?" McGee wondered. "I tell her to do that and she starts claiming I'm coddling her."

"Are you asking me advice on how to best to handle a wife?" Gibbs asked.

McGee opened his mouth then shut it, seeing the folly in his inquiry.

"I'm just going to work on trying to make sense of the latest bundles of code the cyber unit unlocked from the laptop I pirated last summer," McGee said instead. "For some reason, Director Vance has renewed interest in it. Do you know why?"

Gibbs offered him a suffering look.

"First you want marital advice and now you want me to figure out the importance of a secret computer program?" Gibbs remarked. "I'm starting to question whether DiNozzo's the only one with a skull fracture."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Abby's Lab_**

The music was silent that morning as a headache—one that matched nicely with the muscle aches—was building in Abby's temples. If she didn't know better, she would have suspected she was coming down with the flu. However, she had no fever and it was about to be August—hardly flu season. Still, in an abundance of caution, she was waiting for a call back from her doctor to see if going in to be checked was wise. While she waited, she decided there was another patient that needed some attention: Tony.

Ziva reported the previous afternoon that he was back at his apartment, now off morphine and transitioned to Percocet, so that lucid conversation was possible once again. However, it appeared that the CIA's cagey control officer was not interested in doing much talking with anyone now that her charge was home and in his father's care. The why behind that was another issue Abby wanted to probe into, but first she felt checking on Tony was best. A quick text message to Anthony Senior revealed that Tony was, for the moment, alone in his apartment while Senior was off picking up groceries so he could spend the weekend "taking care of Junior."

Abby was not surprised when her call was answered before the first ring stopped.

"Tell me you've got a plan to spring me from the joint," Tony said swiftly.

His voice echoed from the speakerphone in the empty lab space. The sound of it was a little slow but not nearly as loopy as it had been in the hospital.

"So I guess we're not going to discuss rollercoaster sex and tofu again, huh?" Abby replied.

Tony grumbled and claimed ignorance of the remarks. He also pleaded for her to develop amnesia about anything he said while high on painkillers. Ziva had informed him of several alleged remarks he made, but he had no recollection so felt he should not be held accountable.

"So are you calling because you miss me or because you need me?" Tony asked. "Either response will make my day—a choice of both might make me feel even better. I don't care what the doctor said, I'm ready to roll now. Maybe Bishop needs to actually chase the bad guys, but I could trip 'em if she led them to me. I might be able to cuff 'em too if she'd hold them down a bit."

"Wow, and I thought Tim was stubborn about this," she replied. "What you just said made his morning sulking seem reasonable and mature."

"Okay, then I take that to mean you didn't call for my help," Tony sighed. "That must mean you called because you missed me."

Abby bit her lip as she weighed her options. The truthful answer was sort of neither. Certainly, she did miss Tony, but mostly she was just checking on him to see how he was feeling. She had lost her battle with McGee to get him to stay home for another day and take the weekend to finish recovering. The fact she gave in so easily was another reason she was checking in with her doctor. It had been a long week and she was feeling extra spent, but in a way that didn't seem like the usual fatigue she was experiencing. She wasn't precisely worried, but she was hyper aware of any deviation in her routine and what it might mean. For all the weight that lifted from her shoulders in the spring when the doctor let her know the pregnancy was viable, some part of Abby's mind had worried that the other shoe might drop at any time.

"I was just checking in," she finally responded. "I heard you were home, and I wanted to know how you were doing."

"Well, my father tried to feed me last night," Tony groaned. "I told him I only need to keep my left arm immobile, which leaves me the right one to lift my fork. He's been hovering. He was never big on waiting on anyone hand and foot so he's a bit out of his element. I suggested he get me a naughty nanny mostly as a joke, but he's been gone a lot longer than necessary to pick up a few things at the store. I'm a little worried he's interviewing some high-priced call girls who don't mind wearing French maid uniforms."

Abby chuckled a bit but stopped as the aches that woke her that morning washed over her again. It was a dull sort of pain that started nowhere in particular but lingered nearly everywhere leaving here feeling anxious and nauseous.

"Be patient with him and yourself," Abby advised as she pressed her hand to her side as a foot or an elbow began jabbing her, letting her know that her passengers were also not enjoying the day. "I'm going to tell you what I told Tim for the last two days: A lot happened this week. Let those who love you do what we need to do to process all of it."

Tony sighed, hearing her gentle chiding and a slight edge in her voice. He figured that was somewhat McGee's fault, but Tony understood all the same.

"I know this whole episode scared my dad a bit," he admitted. "I've been hurt at work before—hell, I had the plague even—but I always kept that stuff from him. Now, with him living in DC, I can't do that so easily. I was thinking this morning it might be easier on him if he wasn't so close."

Abby sighed sympathetically. McGee did the same thing, hiding work injuries, from his family. She finally convinced him the previous evening to call his mother and let her know what happened. As expected, Carol was worried and suggested it was time for him to look for another job. She leaned her argument heavily on his new family responsibilities, but McGee would not take the bait. He simply changed the subject then ended the call with a promise to check in with his mother the following week as he normally did.

"Once you're back on your feet, or in your instance on your shoulders, your dad won't worry quite as much," Abby suggested. "So other than having a suave and attentive valet and butler, how are you doing?"

"Uh, well, I'm bored," Tony said. "Watching TV or movies is out. It makes me dizzy still. Reading is a bit easier, but if I try to do that for too long, I feel seasick like the room is tilting. The doctor said that could last for another two or three weeks. My surgical scar is healing nicely, but it's starting to itch. I can't dress myself and going to the bathroom is a whole new lesson in planning."

Abby sighed sympathetically.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I almost walked out of the house with two different shoes on this morning," she said. "I wasn't paying attention when I got dressed and I can't see my feet anymore so Tim was the one who pointed out the mistake to me."

Tony laughed—not precisely at her folly so much as it was at the thought of his probie trying to politely critique his wife's attire. He probably spotted the error quickly but held off saying anything on the off chance that her quirky sense of style had intended to mismatch the footwear.

"That's better than me," Tony said. "This morning, I tried reorganizing my movie collection by genre and kept forgetting what categories I chose so it's more random shelves of discs than anything with an order now. I considered alphabetizing the sheet music in my piano bench, but I figured I'd forget what order the letters belong on right now so I stopped. The only thing left for me to do is take my fish for a walk."

As he paused, he heard a slight intake a breath from Abby. He took that as a hiss of worry, which he felt compelled to allay swiftly.

"I'm kidding," he said. "Abs, I'm going to go nuts doing nothing for two months. Tell me you need my help or give me something to do—anything. Please."

She looked around her desk and found it barren of any evidence needing her attention, any reports requiring her vetting, any computer needing her skill. Like Tony, she was feeling useless. The difference was, should something change upstairs, she would be called into action… sort of. Her lab assistants did most of the actual hands-on testing currently—a safety precaution she agreed to in the interest of her health and that of her unborn children. However, analyzing reports could only be done when there were reports available for analysis. Currently, she had none.

"I've got a mold and bacteria analysis seminar to go to next week," she offered. "It's a half-day lecture in Georgetown if you're up for it, you can join me."

Tony groaned. Four hours in a room full of geeks talking about spores and infectious microscopic growing things that could probably eat his face off it not kept checked in a petri dish seemed a bit worse than the torture of solitude and being spoon-fed by his father.

"Yeah, I'm thinking I'll pass on the wonderful world of science offer," he replied. "I've had my fill between getting my own bionic man treatment in Norfolk and McGee flashing me pictures of your critters. They look like aliens—or McGee; same difference, I guess. I mean, they're kind of gawky so I definitely see the resemblance to your husband right off."

Normally, she let McGee and Tony have their juvenile squabbles. It was not her place to defend or scold either of them. Their little snipes at each other were a sort of sibling rivalry that was theirs alone to manage. However, this was a special situation.

"Ahem," she cleared her throat in reprimand. "Do not pick on M-C-G-E-E when the b-a-b-i-e-s are in the room. They have ears now and can hear what you say."

Tony shirked at the thought of babies without ears. The whole concept of them needing to grow the audio appendages sent a chill up his spine. He then made the mistake of saying so.

"Ears _now_?" he shuddered. "That's…. creepy."

"Really?" Abby questioned. "I think babies without ears would be creepier."

"No, I mean…," Tony said, wishing he had the ability to shrug. "Your Mini-McGee's and their little parts. There are two tiny persons living inside you. That doesn't freak you out at all?"

"No," she chuckled. "They move enough now that you can feel it from the outside, too. I'll let you feel them the next time I see you. It's really cool."

The feeling in Tony's gut, the one he tried to ignore, flared again. It was easier to find the whole discussion of Abby and her babies creepy and deflect what he was actually feeling with a joke or an over the top remark.

The problem started when he was in the hospital. As soon as he was lucid enough to understand where he was and grasp the seriousness of what had nearly happened, his thoughts turned dark. He and McGee had nearly died. He had wanted McGee to leave him. Tony felt he owed that to the next generation of McGees to have an intact family. That his partner refused to leave was both infuriating and predictable.

That was the problem with working to closely with someone for so long. You didn't always do what was best. Sometimes you did what felt right and what's feels right and what's best didn't always synch up. Tony wasn't sure what that meant for his working relationship. He himself had made some questionable decisions regarding Gibbs and Ziva in the past. He stood by those choices, but he was someone who acted on his gut. McGee was supposed to be the thinker.

There was also the thought that, had the worst happened, at least some part of McGee would have lived in on his unborn children. Tony didn't have that on his horizon. If he had died, his father would have no family left and there would be nothing more of Tony in the world.

He shook his head, lost on those thoughts, as he realized the phone had gone silent.

"Well?" Abby asked after a long pause. "Tony, I'll let you feel them kick. Tim and I were just saying yesterday that we haven't had anyone over so let's figure out a good night for you to come for dinner. You can feel them then."

"Uh, I don't think so, Abs," Tony said. "That's… really… uh, personal."

"Oh, I don't mind," she said brightly. "This is really exciting."

"Yeah, you might not mind, but your husband might," Tony offered. "Me, touching you—you know how he gets. He has a fit if anyone stands too close to you in the elevator—and that was even before you two were married. If he was that territorial about you before, it's certainly more now. I know he still goes down to the lab to make sure your assistants are properly keeping their distance and behaving. If he sees me laying hands on you, well, who knows how that will turn out."

Abby scoffed and chuckled slightly.

"Since when are you afraid of Tim?" she asked.

"Me, afraid of McBabymaker?" Tony replied. "No. I'm just saying, why kickstart an asthma attack of offense from him. You know he gets a little ramped up when other men are around you."

"He doesn't care if Gibbs is around me," Abby argued.

"That's because the Boss scares him," Tony replied. "Your twitchy other half is an intelligent man."

"And you're changing the subject," she pointed out. "Why you don't want to get to know my babies? Have you given up your campaign to have them named after you and to be their godfather?"

Tony shook his head and sputtered as he tried to plead his case. He believed, and felt McGee was obligated, to follow through on his promise to name his first born after his partner. As his first born was a double-header, that meant he needed to name both children after Tony. Whether Tony got Morse Code signals tapped to him via an in utero foot had nothing to do with that obligation.

"Are you afraid of babies?" Abby asked boldly.

"What?" Tony scoffed although his voice sounded a notch higher. "No. Of course not. Babies are… little and cute and… little and… viscus fluid leaks out of them and…"

"And they're terrifying to you," Abby noted. "I'm going to work on this with you, Tony. We'll get through it together. I know how you can conquer this fear. Just leave it to me."

She was going to start giving him a lesson on the intricate biology of human reproduction—the cool stuff that she found infinitely fascinating that they never covered in depth in any science class—when her cellphone sounded letting her know she was getting another call. She ended her discussion with Tony, promising to call him again in a day or two to check on him again. Then she looked at the number calling her and recognized it as her doctor's office.

"Abby?" Dr. Amy Shinseki's smooth voice greeted her. "I got your message. I want to come in. I'm holding office hours at GW today. Can you come in now?"

"Right now?" Abby replied as she looked at the clock. "Uh, sure. Is there a reason you're getting me in so quickly?"

The worry in her voice ratcheted up a notch as another wave of aches rolled over her and sent her heart racing.

"Because I want to get you in before my day goes crazy," Shinseki replied warmly. "It's a full moon tonight. I know there's not a lot of science behind those old wives tales, but I also know after 20 years in this career that my husband never makes plans for us on nights with a full moon for a reason."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _George Washington Hospital_**

Shinseki's Georgetown office was smaller than the one she kept at her practice in Arlington, closer to Abby and McGee's home. There was no waiting room in the smaller space but as there were no patients ahead of her, Abby was ushered into the office/exam room instantly. McGee accompanied her while sporting a worried expression. A nurse swiftly busied herself taking temperature and blood pressure readings then doing a quick finger prick for a blood sugar reading. She there and gone within five minutes leaving the couple alone while they waited for the doctor to arrive.

"You should have told me you were feeling ill," McGee said gripping her hand.

"I'm feeling achy not ill," she corrected him as she rested on the reclining table. "I only called the doctor because I heard that a couple techs in the evidence garage caught a stomach bug so when I started feeling like I had the flu, I figured I'd check in before I actually came down with anything. My call was a precaution only."

McGee grit his teeth. He blamed himself. She had been through a lot in the last week between his absence for traveling to Puerto Rico, to the commotion with Carter Scott that ousted her from her home, to the insanity of what happened in Norfolk. She wasn't sleeping and was getting run down by her worry for him and her insistence to play his nurse-maid. That, he vowed that morning, was stopping immediately. Despite the twinges it caused, he had insisted (successfully) that he would drive her to her appointment.

"Alright," Shinseki said as she entered the room with a tablet in hand. "I'm admitting you."

"What?" Abby and McGee said simultaneously.

"As a precaution," the doctor replied. "Abby, you're showing signs of premature labor."

"What?" she shook her head. "No. I haven't had a contraction. I'm just tired and feeling like I have the flu."

Shinseki shook her head and placed a comforting hand on Abby's shoulder.

"Those aches you're feeling are not the flu," she reported. "Those are mild contractions. You're feeling them primarily in your back. It's not uncommon for a woman carrying twins, but it is a concern. Your blood sugar is also slightly elevated along with your blood pressure. We caught this early and that is good news. I want to capitalize on this advanced notice that's why I want you here under observation for now. I'm getting you checked into a room, and we're going to run a full panel on you and get you hooked up to a fetal heart monitor just to make sure everyone is doing fine. We're going to administer you some tocolytics to stop the contractions from getting stronger and hopefully stop them all together. This sometimes happens when an expectant mother catches a virus. The body is under considerable strain with the pregnancy so when other systems go out of whack, like having elevated gluclose and white cell counts, the body starts shutting down what is not essential."

"My babies," Abby gasped. "No."

She squeezed McGee's hand tighter as she sat up abruptly. Tears instantly filled her eyes as she drew a sharp and fearful breath.

"There is no reason to panic," Shinseki said calmly to the couple. "We've caught this early so I'm cautiously optimistic we can mitigate this. Now, I know you're anxious, but try and stay calm."

"You think the tocolytics will be successful?" McGee asked, his mind whizzing back to his understanding of biomedical "What are you going to administer?"

"We always start with Terbutaline," the doctor replied. "We can administer it safely for up to 72 hours if necessary without much worry of side effects."

"Terbutaline?" McGee said and caught a questioning look from his wife. "That's a beta-2 adrenergic receptor agonist, a chemical used for smooth muscle relaxation and vasodilation of bronchial passages in treating asthma."

"Precisely," Shinseki said then lifted an eyebrow. "Chemistry degree?"

"Biomedical engineering," McGee replied. "But I know about know about it because I take it for my asthma. You're treating her with asthma meds?"

"Essentially, yes," the doctor replied. "Whereas yours is likely an inhaled administration, Abby will receive an intravenous one at a higher dosage. There are side effects that we will want to monitor as well, so you'll be here for a day or two at least, Abby. If we can stop the preterm labor with the first round of meds, we have a lot of options to consider to keep it at bay."

"And if the drug doesn't work?" Abby asked in a small quaking voice.

"Then we'll try another one," the doctor said confidently. "For now, I want you to relax as best you can. I know that's hard, but that is what you can do to help with this treatment, okay? Now, I'll send Claire back in here once your room is ready. Abby, Tim, it's going to be alright."

Abby nodded and told herself to think positive, but she felt the tears dribbling down her face before she had the chance to wipe them from her eyes. She turned her head toward McGee's shoulder as she fought to hold back a sob while he placed his arm around her and whispered that everything would be okay.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Autopsy Suite_**

Ducky sighed as he hung up the phone. The unexpected call from McGee along with the news he conveyed sent a chill through the medical examiner's heart. There was not much he could do for his two colleagues but offer words of scientific consolation that medically speaking the course of treatment Abby's doctor was proscribing had a relatively high success rate. That the success rate in that statistic was based on women nearer to the end of their third trimester rather than just at the start of it was a fact Ducky kept to himself. However, he knew he could prove useful in other ways to them and was about to prove that as the doors to autopsy opened.

"What do you have for me, Duck?" Gibbs asked as he entered wearing a puzzled expression. "Are you going to tell me you've got Porter here on a slab? Someone should have called me long before he arrived if that's the case."

"Whether fortunately or unfortunately, that is not the case," the medical examiner said. "Timothy tried to reach you, but you were not answering your phone."

"I was with Vance," Gibbs answered.

"Ah, well, neither Timothy nor Abigail will be returning to the office today," Ducky revealed. "Abby's been admitted to George Washington University Hospital. She's experiencing premature labor."

The news hit Gibbs like a punch to the gut. He blinked and took a step back. He scrubbed a hand across his face.

"What happened?" he asked. "McGee just said she had an appointment."

"She has an elevated white count so she may have contracted a virus," Ducky said. "Considering that she is carrying twins and add to that the stress she has been experiencing recently and even a normally tolerable 24-hour stomach bug could create complications. She is fortunate that she has such an experienced doctor who acting quickly upon receiving Abby's call stating she did not feel well. The doctor fortunately took Abby's worries seriously."

Gibbs nodded. He was no medical expert, but he could count. There were far too many weeks to go before the anticipated birth date. He knew medical science had progressed greatly, but he also knew instinctively that being born more than three months early was a recipe for disaster.

"Do they think they can stop it?" he asked.

"The doctor is hopeful," Ducky replied. "Timothy asked me to double check a few things about the drugs they will be administering. I forget sometimes with our reliance on him for his computer skills that his first area of expertise is chemistry based. I plan on taking a late lunch and going to the hospital to see them in an hour or so. Abigail should be resting by then. I do not expect Timothy is going to leave her side until they determine their children are no longer threatening to make an early appearance."

"What are their chances if they do?" Gibbs asked.

Ducky sighed. His grim expression was all the information Gibbs needed.

"It goes without saying that no matter what happens, Abby will not be back at work anytime soon," Duck continued. "She will either be in the hospital or on bed rest. Someone will need to oversee the lab. I know Mr. Curly is always looking to step up and prove himself."

Gibbs' expression lost its worried aspect and changed subtly to something else, something more calculating. He held his tongue for a moment, drawing the doctor's questioning stare.

"Is there something I should know, Jethro?" Ducky asked.

"Curly is taking care of a special project for the director," Gibbs said evasively. "He's going to be too busy to oversee the lab. We'll put Larry in charge for now."

"Mr. Perrine?" Ducky questioned then shrugged his acceptance. "What he lacks in sociability he certainly makes up for in accuracy and adherence to standard operating procedures. He is methodical and not by any means creative, but other than grumbling from case agents that he will not entertain any of their theories until he has run all his required tests, I cannot foresee any issues."

Gibbs snorted as he started toward the door. He translated Ducky's assessment. The supervisory agents and team leaders would have to deal with Larry's personality quirks and lack of user friendly buttons to push to get their work done ahead of others. It might make for a grouchy core of investigators, but the lab would be in capable hands until Abby was able to return. As for the favored lab tech, Bill Curly, there was a lot more in store for him than the man expected.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Arlington National Cemetery_**

The early morning sun trickled over the silent, rolling landscape. A sea of headstones blanketed the green grass sprinkled with due that sparkled in the morning rays. Fog caused by the intense humidity hung over the Tidal Basin in the distance as the first visitor to the graveyard stood in front of the simple white stone carved with the names, dates and final rank of the man encased in the concrete vault six feet below the surface.

McGee stood at his father's grave and sighed with a heavy heart. He had spent the night staring at home first staring at the ceiling and next staring at a picture of the man but finding answers in neither sight. It had been a nerve-wracking night. He left the hospital at 10 when he was certain Abby had fallen deeply asleep. The medications appeared to be working, but there were still more tests and observations to go. Then there was the waiting to see what would happen should they remove her from the drugs to find out if her body would cooperate. Remaining outwardly calm and believably composed for Abby had taken nearly all of his energy.

He had expected to simply drop from exhaustion once he got into the house and sat on the couch. Instead, that's when the thoughts started churning, the ones that whispered all the fears he told Abby to ignore throughout the afternoon and evening.

Fear was something McGee knew and understood. It had been a part of his world for as long as he could remember. Whether it was fear of the dark as a little boy, fear of heights when he was slightly older, fear of failure once he started doing well in school, fear for his father when he sailed off to be with the fleet in harm's way, or even fear he'd made the wrong choices in his life and wasn't deserving of any success, it was something he lived with always. He usually found a way to maneuver around those fears, even if it took a while and a lot of internal coaxing. This, however, was different.

This was fear for his family, his own family. Winning Abby's heart and getting her hand in marriage was the greatest success he had ever dared imagine. Having a family with her was a bonus he never anticipated. Now, having the possibility of losing one and having to watch the woman he loved suffer inconsolably over it struck a new sort of fear in his chest. This one, he realized, was what true terror felt like. He had faced his own possible death a few times and while he did not consider himself all that brave in those instances, he somehow managed to survive. This time, he did not know how he would because what he felt, the horrible, crippling ache that might loom on the horizon if the treatments failed would change and damage his world irreparably.

And that left him thinking dismal thoughts about someone he never thought about in times of trouble: his father.

But he could not get the man out of his mind so when dawn arrived, McGee called a friend who worked at the man's final resting place and received permission for early admission to the national cemetery.

He stood at the grave and listening as birds chirped lightly while littering the ground in search of elusive worms.

"Seems like our longest conversations have occurred since you died," McGee said softly. "That's not me criticizing you or commenting that you never had time for me. You didn't but that's not what I meant. It's more a complaint for myself. I should have made more of an effort when you were alive. I knew you weren't the type to… Anyway, things are… life has been chaotic lately. I haven't been by here at all in the last year and I'm sorry for that. I just never found the time; I don't think I wanted to find it. You see, I got hurt at work and it made me forget a lot of things. One of the things I forgot was you dying. When Penny told me about that, I didn't want to remember it. Then, last night, a few things came back to me. Standing here, when there was snow on the ground, watching them lower your coffin into your grave. I remembered that. I didn't cry, not a single tear, while they did that. I wanted to, but I knew you'd have told me not to so I didn't. I waited until I was back at my apartment by myself."

McGee took a deep, shaky breath and exhaled in an uneven fashion as he felt the jitters from the day before begin to radiate from his stomach again.

"After I remembered that, it started me thinking," he continued. "You left us, me and Sarah, a lot. I used to get so mad and worried when you did that. You told me why and I had to accept it, but last night I was thinking about it and I can't understand how you did it. How you just up and left us all the time and never told us that you missed us or wished that you could stay. See, Abby, my wife, is in the hospital because she almost miscarried our children yesterday. Thankfully, the doctor thinks they have that under control now. Things were looking up when I finally left last night to go home, but all I could think about all night was how sick at heart I felt having to leave her at the hospital just for a few hours and how mad… How mad I am at you for voluntarily leaving your family time and time again and never saying it bothered you or showing us it did… or maybe I should say _if it did_. My children aren't even born yet and I want to apologize to them for not being there with them last night; I want to apologize to Abby again because I had to leave because the ward she was on has strict visiting hours. I want to ask you if you ever felt, for even a minute, even half of what I felt last night. I don't know my children yet, but I'm terrified for them even though they're under a doctor's care. Which got me thinking, Penny told you I was in the NCIS building when it was bombed two years ago, but you never even called to see how I was. You never asked what happened to me. Maybe you asked someone on your staff to get you that information, but you never asked me. I can't imagine not wanting to hear my son's voice say that he was okay after hearing about something like that. I know it does no good to be mad at you now, but… I am. I know a lot of that is just misplaced anger about Abby nearly having a miscarriage, but… I don't care. In the last year, I've nearly been killed twice and almost lost my family, and you're not here to tell me to suck it up or be strong or that everything is going to be fine—and that makes me mad, too."

His chest heaved as he ground moisture from his eyes with the heel of his hand. His ribs ached. His head throbbed. He was tired and worried. Ducky told him to expect this eventually, a renewed stage of grief, as the forgotten memory of his father dying would force him to go through the grief stages again as his mind processed the loss once more. Doing so when he would rather be focused on his wife and children was decidedly inconvenient, McGee thought, but he figured he didn't have much choice in the matter.

Still, having had his say to the man's headstone, did relieve some of the pressure he felt building in his chest through the dark hours. He hoped it cleared his mind and calmed it somewhat so that he could go to the hospital and put on a believably brave face for Abby.

"By the way," he said, his voice leveling out and sounding less angry, "I don't expect a reply. I was just venting. Okay, ranting is probably more accurate. Sorry, Admiral. I know how you disliked emotional discussions of any sort."

He drew a deep breath, one that made his mending bones twinge, but one that also helped clear his mind. Into that renewed sense of calm, he heard a voice not far from his position.

"If you came here looking for answers or solace, you probably won't find much," Bishop's voice carried apologetically through the still morning air. "This is kind of the place might have a certain finality that can be peaceful, but it's also where all the answers stop."

McGee looked over his shoulder to see her approaching softly over the dewy grass while sporting a sympathetic expression.

"I know," McGee said. "I just woke up and felt like I needed to come here before I went to see Abby."

"Sometimes, we just need to talk to our fathers even if they can't or won't talk back," Bishop nodded. "Gibbs was looking for you. He asked me to find you. Actually, we're all a little worried about you. Is your phone on silent? I know it's on because that's how I tracked you here."

McGee nodded and pulled the device from his pocket. He had it on fully silent. Protocol dictated he would not take a call while in the cemetery so he saw no need for it to even be on vibrate when he arrived. He noted the missed calls—relief washed over him as he noted none of the calls were from Abby or the hospital. Bishop seemed to read his momentary apprehension on his face.

"I called the hospital before coming to find you," she reported. "Abby's still stable and still sleeping. Are you going to see her?"

He nodded. He called the hospital as well when he woke up and learned she had an uneventful night. He figured he would give her a bit more time to rest. While doing that, he found himself drawn to his place. He vaguely recalled standing on this spot on a dreary day just after Christmas—no snow on the ground but the air cold enough to freeze breath—as the casket six feet behind his feet was lowered into the ground. There was a 21-gun salute to cap the full military honors. He'd received condolences from the Vice President and the Secretary of Defense. Sec Nav, too, offered a handshake and a few words. McGee hadn't been listening to them so whatever was said was lost long before a gunshot in Afghanistan erased his memory of losing the man whose body rested in this spot.

"I started thinking about him, the Admiral, las night and I wondered if it meant anything," he said as though Bishop had been hearing the thoughts in his head. "I finally remembered the funeral. I wondered if it was a sign. Remembering the death of one family member because…"

He swallowed as his voice trailed off and a bitter taste filled his mouth.

"You're not losing anyone else," Bishop said quickly and confidently. "Abby and the twins are fine. Don't start thinking otherwise. You'll just stress yourself out for no reason."

McGee sighed as he turned away from the grave, realizing Bishop was right and that there were no answers to be found there. He fell into step beside her as she began walked back to the path that wound through the sea of headstones.

"Yesterday was Abby's nightmare," McGee said. "This is what she's feared from the start, that something would happen and… I kept telling her there was no reason to think anything bad would happen. You'd think I of all people would know better than to say that."

Bishop sighed and put her arm around him and hugged him lightly, cognizant of his still healing bones.

"No, Tim, I think you are the perfect person to say that and mean it," she offered. "After everything you've been through, you can speak with authority on finding a reason for hope when things look bad. We didn't think you were going to make it after you were shot. Now, look at you. So, you listen to me, there's no reason to think about funerals or losing anyone today. A year ago you were just starting to get back on your feet. Now, picture this: A year from now, you and Abby are going to be scurrying around your house chasing your kids because they're going to be crawling around like a pair of eager ants just looking for trouble. You want to worry about something, worry about them climbing the stairs or tearing down the curtains."

McGee smirked and whispered his thanks as he returned her embrace and offered up a silent wish (perhaps a prayer) that she knew what she was talking about.

"Other than wondering where I was, did Gibbs need something from me?" McGee asked, trying to shift his brain to more productive thoughts.

"Yes, but it can wait," Bishop replied. "He and Vance have some special project they're working on that has something to do with internal communications. I don't have all the details, but I think Gibbs wants you to write a program that is going to look for something involving email or text messages."

McGee nodded, not thinking the assignment overly complicated and wondering why they were not asking the cyber unit to tackle it. The most likely answer, he knew, was that Gibbs didn't want to deal with the cyber geeks across the street in the annex. He had a certain tolerance level for the programming savvy agent on his team, but anyone who spent the majority of their career in the basement just looking at code was a creature Gibbs generally tried to avoid.

"Does this have to do with whatever you did with Gibbs in Florida?" McGee asked.

He was still in the dark on the purpose of their travel and what it accomplished. There were several bases in Florida and he wondered if they head a lead on the head of the drug running scam.

"Um, I'm not sure if this is directly related," Bishop answered.

"What did you do down there?" he asked and sensed he tensing up. "Ellie?"

"I'm not sure what I'm allowed to tell you," she said truthfully. "McGee, there's a lot that's gone on and some of it leads back to what happened to you in Afghanistan and what just happened in Norfolk last week. I don't know that I understand all of it, but some of it involves Admiral Porter."

McGee snarled at the mention of the man.

"Rear Admiral," McGee corrected her tersely. "He's not a full admiral and shouldn't be addressed as one."

"Okay," she nodded. "So I guess hearing that he had a near fatal heart attack and is on life support isn't going to add to your worries."

McGee stopped in his tracks and looked at her questioningly. When her expression did not change, he huffed his lack of worry.

"Not in the least," McGee said. "I've never truly hated anyone in my life—not even Ari Hswari, the guy who killed Kate Todd—but for Porter, I've considered making an exception. My whole life, the guy was just… He made my father think I was a liar when I was a kid, or I think he did. I'm not sure any more about those days. What I do know is that anytime that guy walked into a room, I couldn't walk out of it fast enough. You know, finding out he was the person I went to have dinner with on the carrier last year was what got me thinking there was more to my trip out to the ship than dinner with some of my father's friends. I knew there wasn't a force on the planet that could make me willingly sit at a table with that guy. So, if he dies, I don't see it as being a huge loss."

Bishop nodded and held her tongue. McGee had no clue how lucky he was, how close he had come to a childhood tragedy, and how desperately unlucky his friend Carter Scott had been. Whether that secret would remain hidden was anyone's guess. With Porter now all but dead, there was a chance Scott's past could remain buried as he wished. Whether McGee would ever find out the truth was a question only time would answer, but for now, it was apparent that his mind was far from working matters.

"I was thinking of stopping by to see Abby," Bishop offered. "Do you mind if I follow you there? I'll wait in the lobby until you summon me, but I would like to see her if you think that would be okay."

"That'll be fine," he nodded. "I think visitors will be good for her. Just don't mention work until she asks you about it and then give her honest answers. If the lab is a little crazy, tell her. If we start lying to her, she'll know and it will make her even more anxious."

Bishop nodded. Thankfully, things were quiet around the Navy Yard at the moment. How much longer that would last, she did not know. Gibbs and Fornell spent the entire plane ride back from Florida two days earlier with their heads together planning and plotting something. When they returned to the office, they went directly to see Vance. After that, Curly had a special assignment and all talk of the drug case had stopped… at least as far as she knew.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come.


	53. Chapter 53

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Vance's Office_**

Vance cleared the text message from his son from his phone as he sighed. Not having Jackie to keep track of all the practices and events was a nightmare separate and apart from not having the woman herself around to help raise their children. Vance would have given anything, a limb, an eye, half his liver and most of his lungs, to have her back. As that was not possible, he would have just settled for even an eighth of her ability to be on top of all of their kids' activities and schedules on any given day. Running an armed law enforcement agency with extraterritorial jurisdiction was nothing compared to keeping track of two teenage children.

He sighed and replied to his son that he could go to a friend's home following his afternoon pre-season practice. Vance adored his children but instilling in them, his son especially, the importance to planning their days in advance and paying attention to little things like the date on the calendar was enough to push the Director of NCIS into a two-toothpick per day habit again. His jaw muscles bunched as he turned away from family matters to focus on work issues.

One of those issues entered the office without being announced.

"I have a lot of goals I want to accomplish before I leave this job someday," Vance said to Gibbs. "One of them is teaching you to knock."

"I know how to knock," Gibbs informed him.

"Love for you to demonstrate that for me just once," Vance replied then sighed. "You ready to do this?"

Gibbs nodded. They had taken a week following his return from Florida to sift through the possibilities for the leak at NCIS. Gibbs' gut told him where they needed to look, but Vance acted as a red team and poked many holes in his suspect list. The field agent was not bothered by the resistance. It just helped prove him right in a more solid way.

Of course, convincing Vance was one thing. Gathering enough evidence to make a case stick was something else.

"The lab's run lean before so there shouldn't be a problem putting Curly on this project," Gibbs said. "Larry and Morris can handle things down there."

"I'm already hearing grumbling about Mr. Perrine not being user friendly," Vance offered.

Gibbs shrugged his lack of concern about Larry's lack of bedside manner. The man was thorough and exceedingly competent. That he didn't like chitchat or agents lingering or tinkering with evidence in the lab was frankly a bonus in the team leader's book.

"We didn't hire him for his personality," Gibbs said.

"He's not the only one," Vance replied as he eyed Gibbs flatly. "I've got Keating in the cyber unit chattering about background checks on agents' bank accounts and the Inspector General's Office looking into evidence logs. That should start to shake things loose."

Gibbs nodded. He wasn't a fan of deceiving his coworkers. The only thing he liked less was knowing one of them was betraying the agency and committing felonies right under their noses.

"I haven't had an update this morning from Agent McGee on how he's coming with his end," Vance noted. "Is he up for this?"

"He's fine," Gibbs said. "He's cleared to work at a desk so he's there… working."

Gibbs didn't have the specifics of whatever the results of all his agent's furious typing created. He gathered from McGee's morning rambling that he had written a program and it was running.

"So he's analyzing the data his snooper program is finding and making changes to the code based on what it tells him," Vance nodded, deciphering Gibbs' vague use of the word 'working.' As he hadn't said struggling, Vance determined that meant whatever the agent created it was proving successful.

"He hasn't hit on anything so far," Gibbs said. "If he doesn't find what we need in two weeks, we'll need to rethink this. He'll be cleared for field duty again by then. I need him doing that job not sifting through email and text messages all day."

Vance grunted his partial agreement. Where McGee belonged was not so clear to him. He might prove useful to Gibbs' team, but Vance knew there were other areas of the agency that would benefit from his skills more. That, however, was a discussion for another time.

"Do we know if Ms. Scuito will be able to take over the analysis if Agent McGee is cleared for the field again?" Vance wondered. "I am told she is home now and can work remotely on a limited basis."

"Probably best if she doesn't," Gibbs answered. "Her doctor put her on bed rest. I'm considering her benched for the rest of the year."

Vance sighed and nodded his grudging agreement. He had no issues with married couples being on staff. There were several sets of married agents throughout NCIS. What troubled him was when something happened to one of them and the impact it then had on the other. NCIS was a small agency in comparison to other armed federal agencies. Any losses were felt exponentially across the agency.

"That brings me back to my question about Agent McGee," the director said. "Is his head here in the squad room, or is he worrying about family matters?"

Gibbs scoffed as he offered Vance a questioning look.

"It's McGee, Leon," Gibbs shook his head. "The answer is yes. His head is here, and he's completely worrying about family matters. It's what he does. He's got his phone tapped into a webcam at his house to keep an eye on Abby without her knowing it. While he's doing that, he's also here typing all that gibberish on his keyboard to figure out who's informing on us to a drug cartel."

Vance nodded, understanding and appreciating the candor. However, some part of it did not seem accurate.

"And she has no clue he's spying on her?" he asked doubtfully.

"She knows," Gibbs replied. "She just didn't tell him that she knows."

"You've spoken to her?" Vance asked. "How is she?"

"Worried but coping," Gibbs said. "Worry is fairly normal for Abby, but she doesn't scare easily. This scared her."

Gibbs spoke with her that morning when she called to apologize for leaving the lab without her direct supervision. He was unconcerned. What he wanted to be certain of was that she would follow her doctor's orders and do her best not to worry about the office. She explained she was allowed to do light duty, like review reports on her laptop, but Gibbs wasn't in favor of that.

"I think it's best if she focuses on the resting part of being on bed rest," he said.

Vance grunted his agreement. Gibbs' team was (temporarily) decimated. They had lost DiNozzo for a couple months while his bones healed. They had McGee for couple weeks while his healed as well. Those losses were hard enough to absorb for Gibbs' team, but losing the top forensic scientist was a staggering blow to the agency. Abby might have relinquished some of her duties to her assistants, but her presence and leadership in the lab was not easily replace and was thoroughly missed by both the techs and the agents.

"We're going to have an opening in cybercrimes here at the Navy Yard," Vance said. "Maybe it's time I move McGee to where we need him most. We might have caught on to our leak sooner if someone with his eye and his skill was there in the first place."

Gibbs sighed. The move would be a promotion for his agent, a step into management with a notable pay raise and a drastic drop in threats to his safety on the job. For someone who had come precariously close to losing his life in the line of duty that could be a comforting offer. To someone who soon would have a young family depending on him to come home safe and sound (and at reasonable hours) each night, it might be too tempting to pass up.

"If it's what he wants," Gibbs said.

"Would he take it?" Vance asked. "I offered him Okinawa a couple years ago and he turned it down. Of course, things have changed since then."

"Have to ask him yourself," Gibbs replied.

"No chance I could get you to recommend to him to say yes?" Vance wondered and received a flat stare in response. "Didn't think so. Well, for now what I need from him is results. Today is the day we move Mr. Curly to his special project. If he hasn't already, he'll soon hear from Keating about the internal audit we're running and the suspicions that OIG has. When you put him in charge of the evidence log audits, make sure he knows you want detailed reports and that they only go to you. Emphasize that you are the only one he is to discuss this with at all."

Gibbs nodded.

"He's always hinting to DiNozzo that he wants to be a field agent," Gibbs remarked sourly.

"Then let him think this is his chance to try out for the big leagues and a spot on your team," Vance said. "I want this leak plugged now."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Abby and McGee's Home_**

As deep summer rolled by it cooked the District a deep and crusty brown with a hot sun and thick humidity filling the air each day. Statistics showed that murder rates rose when temperatures did and that left NCIS scrambling to fill spots from their depleted bench. Gibbs's team was down two full-time field agents, and the lab was absent two key players.

Abby was home watching ceiling fans and rejoicing in each hour that passed which did not spawn a contraction. She was on bedrest for the foreseeable future. She was permitted to work virtually a few hours each day but that was all. Her universe consisted of the interior of her home. In the mornings, she was permitted to leave her bedroom and make her short commute to the couch in the living room, where the air remained cooler throughout the day. Occasional trips to the bathroom and kitchen were all the activity she engaged in until McGee returned each evening to escort her back to the bedroom.

To say it was boring was an understatement, but it was necessary. Four days in the hospital ensuring the premature labor was put to rest was all the wakeup call she needed that she had to power down and just let her primary purpose be that of an incubator.

She remained in touch with many in the office via text, email, and Skype. McGee kept her dutifully apprised of most office news—case work and rumors. She also had regular visitors. Several agents and a few people from the personnel office created a lunch schedule to drop by a few times each week to keep her company during their lunch hours. Bishop came by in the evening hours whenever McGee had to work late on some project involving the creation of a new scrubber program for office email and text messaging that Gibbs and Vance had him creating—one her husband made her vow she would never mention to anyone as only Gibbs and Vance were supposed to know it existed.

It was all very mundane and predictable (other than what McGee's project was for), but Abby managed to find some Zen in all of it. She missed the activity of the office, the energy she felt being in her lab, the thrill of working on cases and finding answers. But what she liked more was the steady beats of her children's hearts—a sound she had on her iPod and would listen to anytime she got antsy and felt the urge to take an unannounced trip into the office. She told herself that if McGee had managed to spend roughly 12 weeks in bed recovering the previous year that she could withstand that as well.

With that mantra in mind, she lay on the couch and waited for her visitor to arrive. Tony had called that morning and announced he too was tired of being cooped up. Since everyone else he knew was working, he decided his best choice was to play hooky from being a patient and go see the only other person he knew not working: Abby.

When he arrived, he did as instructed on his phone and simply walked into the house without waiting for anyone to answer the door.

"Hey, Abby," Tony smiled as took off his sunglasses and found her resting on the couch. "Let the good times roll. I have come to entertain you and… Whoa! What happened to you?"

He gaped and blinked as approached. In their years working together, he had seen her wear catholic school girl uniforms, vampire garb, even hazmat suits, but nothing prepared him for what he saw that day.

"Nothing," Abby replied. "I'm just sitting here with my feet up as prescribed. What is it? Is it because my feet are bare? You've never seen me without shoes after all. Is your head okay?"

She smirked at the statement. It was absurd and irreverent, something she hadn't felt like being in days. Sullen and sad had been her go to emotions when she wasn't spiraling into a knot of worry, but that morning she had made a pact with herself. She would pull herself out of the funk somehow. When Tony called and offered to visit, she took that as a good sign that things were looking up.

"My head?" Tony repeated as he continued to blink and stare. "Uh, it's… fine, I guess. A little dizzy once in a while still, but otherwise fine. You look… different."

"Did I miss a button?" she asked.

She stretched her neck as she tried to look over her belly but gave up quickly.

"No, I mean, you look… pregnant, like really pregnant," he remarked. "I guess I haven't seen you in person in while. Well, at least, not when I'm not high on morphine. So, is all that you or is it just the clothes?"

The change since the last time he recalled seeing her—several weeks earlier—was startling. Beyond the surprise he felt, Tony felt a different emotion in his chest. It came on suddenly but was easy for him to identify. He grimaced as he tried to smile.

"It's all me," she said patting the bump at her mid-section. "My regular wardrobe surrendered to maternity clothes while you all were in Puerto Rico weeks ago. As soon as that happened, my science project just took off. I think it's sort of like the goldfish effect."

Tony thought briefly of the two fish on his bookcase at his apartment and wondered how their neighborhood had anything to do with his friend's appearance. Tony then turned his eyes back to Abby.

"I own a couple, but in truth I don't really know much about fish," he admitted. "I don't recall them causing… what you've got going on there."

"No, I mean, if you keep a goldfish in a small bowl, then it stays small," Abby explained. "If you put your fish in larger tank, they grow larger. So, for me, when the wardrobe changed it meant more space which meant more surface area."

Tony nodded slowly following the logic but still a little weirded out by it.

"So, you're a tank?" he wondered.

Abby pointed sternly at him.

"Careful," she warned. "You look confused still. You do understand where babies come from, right?"

He groaned and followed her gesture to take a seat. The room was pleasantly cool despite the stiflingly humid air outside. He looked around the room and saw things looked much the same as the last time he was in the house the previous fall. He shook his head at the thought. So much time and so many changes had occurred.

"How are you doing?" he asked. "The baby launch sequence is frozen at T-minus however many weeks until November and counting still?"

Abby nodded. Being placed on bedrest was not something she considered joke material, but there was a worry in Tony's voice and a tenderness in his eyes that made his flip comment seem more heartfelt than a lot of the sympathy messages she received from others. Not that their comments were not genuine, but she sensed Tony understood the gravity of the situation and what it meant to her. He might play the class clown at the office much of the time, but he understood loss and how suddenly life could change from triumph to tragedy.

"Everyone in this body is grounded for at least the next 15 weeks," she said. "I am going to perfect my bump on a log impersonation, and my little guppies are going to continue to just hang out happily in their bowl with no interest in traveling anywhere for a while. I've had a talk with them, and they understand they're staying put for now."

Tony smirked.

"Okay, but if in 18 years they don't want to go to college, just remember you laid down the law when they were so impressionable," he said. "Of course, by then MIT might have created a transporter array so they could beam to and from class or a holographic classroom so they never need to leave their bedrooms. Face it, Abs, you and McGee are never having sex again because these two are never going to leave the house."

And so the morning drifted along. Both strategically avoided talking about the office; although, it was apparent to both of them that they were deeply curious about anything they might be missing. That kept their discussion on movies and the weather. Abby tried to get Tony to feel the kung fu fighting going on inside her gut, but her encouraging remarks could not make him budge. The more he resisted, the more she felt the need to educate him about the various stages of fetal development. By the end of the morning, he felt certain he would never look at fruit the same way again… or possibly a woman's anatomy.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Outside Abby and McGee's Home_**

When the lunch hour rolled around, Tony prepared to leave to meet his father. Senior was meeting him for lunch around the corner from Tony's apartment and left cryptic hints that he had a surprise in store. What that could be worried Tony.

With thoughts on what his father had cooked up this time on his mind, Tony left only to find Abby was receiving another and (for him) unexpected visitor. As he stepped into the brilliant sunshine of the afternoon, he spied Ziva walked toward the house carrying a bag from Cartula's, a deli in Foggy Bottom. Tony looked at it with hopeful eyes as his stomach called out its approval and envy.

"I don't suppose you have enough for three in there," he wondered with a grin.

"Abby is not three people," Ziva replied flatly.

"I know that, but my stomach is singing the song of my people," he offered then lowered his voice. " _Feed me, Seymour._ "

"There is no seafood in this," Ziva shook her head.

"I said Seymour, not seafood," Tony grumbled.

Ziva chose to ignore his groan and rolling eyes.

"I am having lunch with Abby," she said stiffly. "You may join us, but you must find food of your own."

Tony shook his head. He had a lunch date of his own to meet. Besides, driving with one arm was hard enough, but at least parking on the quiet residential street was no problem. Maneuvering in a parking lot or (worse) parallel parking outside a deli or takeout place was asking for a miracle he didn't feel confident enough to request.

"Never mind," he sighed. "I need to get out of the sun before I melt like an ice cube."

"I thought you loved this kind of weather," she remarked. "You sent me several selfish pictures of yourself in Puerto Rico bragging about the tropical temperatures."

"They're called selfies," Tony corrected here. "Not selfish… although, now that I think about it, they are vain enough that I can see the confusion. But that's not the point. In Puerto Rico, there was an ocean breeze. Or maybe that was just McGee's wheezing with asthma and whining to get home."

Ziva scoffed and shook her head. She normally paid no mind to Tony's picking and complaining about his partner's quirks. The two men had worked closely together for a long time and seemed to enjoy grumbling about each's peculiarities; however, she was irritable. There were a great many things on her mind and seeing Tony, particularly unexpectedly, made her nerves even rawer.

"McGee is not at fault for his breathing condition—he was born with it," she said. "As for his desire to be home with his wife rather than stuck on an island with you, it is completely natural unlike, perhaps, a grown man with a fear of babies."

Tony gaped. He sputtered his disagreement but met only a stony expression and certainty that his excuses and explanations were childish.

"You were afraid when Abby offered for you to feel the babies kick previously," Ziva revealed. "She told me so. You are afraid of a fetus or two."

Tony shook his head defensively while feeling his face grow slightly red.

"Whoa, hey, language, the f-word, really?" he shirked. "There's no need for that."

"It is not a vulgar word," Ziva assured him.

"No, but it's a creepy one," he shuddered. "As for my hesitation to take Abby up on her offer to feel the little demons wriggling, I just didn't think it was my place to lay my hands on McBabyMaker's handiwork, that's all. That's not fear. That's called respect."

"It is fear," Ziva asserted. "At one time, you showed signs of maturing and wanting to grow out of your juvenile behavior and perhaps even to want a family of your own. Reacting to the impending birth of your friends' children as though someone covered you in leeches is hardly the reaction of a mature man interested in a family of his own."

Tony shook at the mention of leeches. While he disagreed with the assessment that he was juvenile and not interested in familial prospects, he wasn't comfortable pleading that case with Ziva—at least not out in the open in front of McGee's house. He knew there was only one way to confront this issue: turn the tables.

"Oh yeah?" he countered. "What about you? Have you, our steely eyed ninja, gotten touchy feely with the McBump?"

"I have," Ziva replied. "They were not active at that time. Abby believes they were asleep."

Tony snorted and shook his head.

"The old ' _they were sleeping_ ' line, eh?" he remarked. "Maybe they're just afraid of you, Ziva. You scare children."

"I certainly make you nervous," she offered as she walked past him toward the front steps.

She could feel his eyes follow her as she felt the shift in his expression, from one that better matched someone watching the scene from the original Riddley Scott classic, _Aliens_ , when the creature burst from the man's chest, to one more akin to a starving man watching a full course meal be carried by on a silver tray.

"My hesitation is perfectly natural," he said.

"Perhaps, but there is more to it than your claim of respect," Ziva said coldly. "You know Abby to be open, friendly and adamant about sharing her happiness. If you cannot be happy for her, you would do well to at least not look or act repulsed."

Tony gaped. He wasn't happy for his friends and he wasn't repulsed… precisely. When he was being brutally honest with himself, it was that their happiness made him feel a little miserable about his own life. Also, babies (particularly those that were not yet in daylight and breathing air) were something out of a horror flick in his opinion.

"I'm happy that she's happy—I share in her happiness," he said. "I just feel like I can do that and keep my hands to myself. As for what I want in my life… someday… I'm not opposed to a rugrat. It's just that all this, with Abby and McGee, it maybe got me thinking."

Ziva paused on the front steps and lifted her sunglasses to look fully at him. She saw sincerity on his face and hesitation.

"Thinking about what?" she wondered.

"About life and how things change," he said with a wistful sigh. "Two years ago, the whole McAbby storyline was history—old news about a sad romance that never stood a chance. Now, they're married and they're going to be parents. That doesn't make you scratch your head and go ' _what the hell_?' I mean, McGee, as someone's dad. It kind of blows my mind. I have a hard time not thinking of Probie as practically a kid himself, but now he's going to be responsible for raising a child—two ankle biters actually. That's… scary."

Ziva shook her and sighed at Tony's myopic view and refusal to see anything but the past. It infuriated her on a personal level, but she swallowed those feelings. She noted that they were just one more reason why the thoughts and urges that kept her from sleeping well were simply a bad idea.

"I think McGee and Abby have found the happiness they deserve," Ziva said. "As for your shortsightedness on McGee, he is not a child. Speaking as someone who did not have a stellar father, I am confident that McGee will excel in the role and be an exceptionally good father. He is responsible, patient, and unafraid to show that he cares for those he loves. Frankly, I would find it scarier if you were the one responsible for raising a child. You can be infantile and unreliable."

Tony scoffed, stung by the remark. He gaped in offense at her words.

"What?" he questioned. "Me? I am not."

"Oh, please," Ziva complained sourly. "I believe the first time a hot woman crossed your path, you would drop the baby in the nearest mailbox with a note stating: _Return to Mother_."

Rather than wait for a retort, she angrily climbed the steps then opened the door disappearing into the house. Tony sighed then hung his head as he made his way dejectedly to his car to spend a silent and lonely afternoon in his apartment.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Autopsy Suite_**

McGee entered the sterile room while wearing a quizzical expression. The Director summoned him there just after lunch without any stated reason.

"Boss, Director," McGee nodded cautiously to both men.

He noted both men wore stern expressions. Oddly, what worried McGee more was the lack of a body on the exam tables. Ducky, he knew, was with Bishop at lunch. Tony was still recovering. McGee had not seen him for long since he returned from his stay at the hospital as most hours away from the office were spent with Abby. She had not yet accused her husband of hovering, which worried McGee. When she began doing that and asserting her lack of needing a babysitter, he would know she was actually feeling better. Her doctors were cautiously optimistic that their treatments coupled with bedrest would keep her preterm labor at bay.

"Unconventional meeting rooms are necessary when you're trying to keep down appearances," Vance offered. "I can't have you and Gibbs in and out of my office so often if we're going to still keep a lid on what's going on."

McGee nodded. Things at the office were extremely tense since the explosion in Norfolk. What had started as an inquiry into drug being shipped from thousands of miles away had official hit close to home when two agents were nearly killed. While the case into the drug shipments was still a top priority, the hunt for who was leaking information on the investigation and who was helping those targeting agents was that week's priority.

"What did you have?" Gibbs asked.

"Four text messages in the last week and three emails found so far over the last seven months," he reported. "All deleted from the carrier and the NCIS server nearly immediately after being sent. All traceable to the same individual. You were right, Boss."

Gibbs nodded slowly, unsurprised by the information but a bit taken aback by his agent's deliver of the information. Considering where their mole had been discovered, McGee was taking the news almost too well.

"Can you trace who deleted the messages and the email?" Vance asked, oblivious to Gibbs' concerns. "Is it solid enough for an arrest?"

"We've arrested suspects on less," McGee said. "A lot less. Are we arresting him? I thought the point was to follow who he was reporting to so we can roll up more of the ring. Has that plan changed?"

"No," Vance replied. "Someone is going to talk to him. Today, in fact. It just won't be you. I want your findings printed—from your computer only—and handed to Agent Gibbs. Your part in this now done. Writing up your report should take the rest of the day. Once you're done, go home."

"Home, sir?" McGee asked.

"You've done enough for us, Agent McGee," Vance said. "Put your shield away for the evening. Go spend the evening with your wife. Talk about anything but the office. Got that?"

"Yes, sir," he nodded, taking the hint that he was not to mention anything about work to Abby.

That, McGee knew, would not be a problem. There was enough stress in their house with their combined worry about Abby's health. Adding to that with worry about someone close betraying them and the agency and it was asking for higher blood pressure and insomnia for both of them.

Vance nodded brusquely then left the room with the doors whispering their harsh hush behind him. McGee looked to Gibbs figuring as he did not depart first there was still more to discuss.

"Something else you need, Boss?" McGee asked.

"Got a job for you on Friday," Gibbs said. "Meeting. Falls Church. JAG Office. 10 a.m."

"Okay," McGee nodded as he stifled a yawn. "For what? A deposition?"

Gibbs tilted his head then half shrugged without precisely confirming the purpose of the upcoming meeting. Instead, Gibbs gave his agent a hard appraising look.

"You doing alright?" he asked.

"Define alright?" McGee replied then nodded. "I mean, I'm fine. Just a lot happened recently. With Tony out, Ellie needs as much help as I'm allowed to give her. There just aren't enough hours in the day."

"And after the day?" Gibbs asked. "Saw a light on at your place late more than a few times recently. Most people sleep with the lights off."

McGee nodded. Turning out the lights only seemed to work for Abby lately. At least, McGee hoped shew as being more honest than he was. He left their room each evening when he believed she was finally asleep. He had done some work on his computer, capitalizing on those late night thoughts that often arced through his mind with possible code combinations that he would never be able to recreate the next day if he didn't jot them down instantly. Those minutes were far and fleeting, however. He knew he couldn't just stare at the walls so he had put his sleepless evenings to good use. Granted, he ached from it and was moving slowly with the task, but it was nearly finished and would be done that week.

"I was painting," McGee revealed. "Things got crazy last month and I didn't get the nursery painted like I planned. When Abby was in the hospital, I started. I didn't get much done because ribs were a hindrance. They hurt less now and I need something to do or I'll go nuts staring at the ceiling each night."

"Abby isn't trying to help?" Gibbs wondered.

She had been, unsurprisingly, sullen when Gibbs spoke to her on the phone, but he did not think she seemed depressed and disengaged. She was forcefully casual in her conversation topics which belied the fear she was suppressing.

"She doesn't know," McGee said. "It's zero VOC paint so it's odorless and she hasn't gone into the nursery since she got home. Not that she's avoiding it. She just has a limited universe. She only spends time in our room and the living room. She's taking her restrictions seriously. Boss, with a computer and writing code, I'm fine right now, seriously, but if this thing at JAG HQ is to prep for testimony or something, maybe I shouldn't be the one talking to lawyers."

Gibbs chuckled and shook his head.

"Better you than me," Gibbs remarked. "When you get there, go see Commander Roberts. He and Commander Coleman need to see you."

"Commander Roberts and Commander Coleman?" McGee winced. "Boss, one of them can't stand me and the other… well, she… makes me uncomfortable."

"Bud Roberts has no problem with you," Gibbs assured him. "He thinks you break into too many secure computers, but what he thinks and what he can prove are two different things. As for Faith Coleman… Making people uncomfortable is her hobby."

"I can see that," McGee grumbled as he shuddered at the thought of spending the morning with the stern Navy lawyer. "Why am I going to see Commanders Roberts and Coleman again? What case is it?"

Gibbs nodded as he started toward the door, jerking his head for his agent to follow.

"The case that shouldn't go to trial," Gibbs said cryptically. "Don't worry about what to say. You won't need to prep for it."

Gibbs stepped into the elevator and kept his expression bland as McGee joined him with a puzzled expression. While his junior agent was obviously winding himself up to worry about familiarizing himself with a case file, Gibbs' mind was swiftly moving to his mole hunt and what he needed to do in the next few crucial days. Getting one of agent who was most closely entangled with the case out of the office to talk to JAG was a well-timed bonus.

"If I don't need to prep, then I'm not there to give a statement or testify," McGee surmised. "Why am I going?"

Gibbs sighed and shrugged.

"Because that's what good sons do for old friends of their fathers," Gibbs replied.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Tony's Apartment_**

It had only taken an hour of constantly pinging Bishop with text messages and calling her desk phone to offer what Tony assured her were necessary and important bits of movie trivia for her to email him something to do. He realized how much he had rattled her when he realized what she sent: Tony read Gibbs' report notes from a conversation he had with Kort weeks earlier in his basement.

She obviously meant to send him something else… that or she deemed the report completely useless and thought she was both punishing Tony for bothering her and keeping him from doing any work when he was supposed to be on medical leave. Whatever the reason, he was glad for it. What he read was fascinating—and he didn't think that was due to his still slightly off-kilter thoughts or the mild but effective pain meds he was still taking.

Tony found it odd that Gibbs bothered to document the conversation between himself and the disavowed spy, but considering the many tentacles in this case it also made perfect sense that the Boss would capture any hint or clue possible in case it became relevant.

"So, it's all about numbers, is it?" Tony said out loud to himself as he studied Gibbs' notes on the conversation from weeks earlier. "Numbers. What numbers, you felonious limey bastard? Computers. He mentions computers. Computers in the 1980s. Why then?"

With a frustrated snort, he lifted his phone and hit number three on his speed dial (number one being Gibbs and number two being his tailor, Dominic).

"Tony?" McGee said in a cautious voice as he answered the summons. "Do you need something?"

"Yes, to hear the dulcet tones of your voice, McLovin'," Tony said flatly. "Two things. First, I spent the morning with Abby. Ziva showed up; I'm thinking they're planning a whole Thelma and Louise moment once your gremlins need diapers—that's just a heads up from your sake. She'll need a weekend of hot, wild girlfriend… uh, wildness, so you better be prepared to play Mr. Mom."

Two movie references in a matter of seconds, McGee sighed. Abby had texted him earlier that Tony was feeling exceptionally lost and lonely without his job to occupy him. McGee sighed but did so patiently, remembering how that felt when he was laid up in Dallas the previous year.

"Thanks for that," McGee said mildly. "And your second reason for calling?"

"Yeah, why would someone think computers in the 1980s were important?" Tony asked. "I don't want to know the history of the computer or anything. Just tell me: Is there anything big with computers that may involve our drug case starting in the 1980s?"

McGee chewed his lip as he tried to think of any obvious connection. None came to mind. Computers played a role in the ring now, but when it went high tech was still unknown as far as McGee knew. All McGee had were general bits of information, none of which seemed relevant to Tony's inquiry.

"Uh, nothing," he replied. "The '80s were when computers took off in the mainstream and white collar businesses began moving to digital platforms and formats. Manufacturing industries had already started shifting there years earlier. Obviously, the military was on the leading edge of the changes—the nuclear fleet required it. The biggest and publically obvious gains were in entertainment with video games, and of course the medical field took off like wildfire with records."

"Hold it," Tony stopped him as he scanned more of Gibbs' notes. "Medical? How?"

McGee explained the improved diagnostics and the new way of record keeping for everything from appointments to medication tracking for drug reactions. Tony's ears began to ring and his eyes grew wide.

" _All those little numbers whizzing around and controlling our lives_ ," he read.

"Ones and zeroes, yeah," McGee agreed. "What's this about?"

"Nothing, McZero," Tony said cagily. "I wasn't talking to you just then. I'm… watching a documentary about free range nerds, and they mentioned a big round up in the '80s. I was curious how they got so many in the cage so quickly. Now I know. Thanks, Tim. Gotta go."

Tony licked his lips as he realized what he had. Kort's offerings to Gibbs weren't just taunting or idle rambling. It was a code, a map of sorts, giving the agent points to lead somewhere specific.

His points were clues. _Couldn't even get sick or hurt without someone putting it into a computer and cataloging it_.

"Hospital records of people who were injured," Tony said making a note. "He mentions the 1980s, but he doesn't give a specific year. So whatever the heartless sociopath is getting at starts then but maybe goes beyond those years. Beyond? Okay, something that's continuous. He's hinting there's a pattern. I need to find a pattern in some medical records. Computerized medical records. Everything is computerized. What the hell does he mean? And wow, this whole campfire thing would be a lot easier if there are more people to fan the flames."

He continued to read the notes and his eyes kept being drawn to the last part. It was a taunt of sorts. Kort had tweaked Gibbs by calling him a dinosaur and telling him to put his _surrogate son_ the computer genius on the case. That bugged Tony. Kort, of all people, should have known how odd that remark was. McGee was always arms' length about family when he was in the office. Certainly his father and Gibbs held the same stern views about duty and honor, but Gibbs never tried to be a parent to McGee. He was his boss. Certainly McGee was like family to the man, but it wasn't a father son sort of relationship.

"I'm the one Gibbs usually…," Tony paused as he looked hard at the notes again then laughed. "You crafty, unscrupulous bastard. You knew I'd read this and look into it. The real clues are computer based so you're telling me I need McGee. Wow. Trent, I still wish you were dead, but I'll give you this. You're like 50 times smarter than I give you credit for being."

It was farfetched for certain, but at the same time, the words were just screaming at Tony from the page. It was like something from a movie (he hesitated to go the route the _National Treasure_ route, but in this instance he knew of no way to avoid it).

"So," Tony wondered as he quoted the movie, " _the secret lies with Charlotte_. That means McDigitHead needs to dig into computer records, but what records? What the hell am I supposed to ask McGee to dig into if I don't know where to start? Yeah, I'm back to hating you, Trent, really and truly. You want Gibbs to walk to the plank, well, I want you to stand in front of a firing squad."

Plank.

 _Walk the plank?_

Gibbs's latest project in his basement wasn't a boat at all. It was a piece of furniture. The maritime reference was such an obtuse thing to say, so much so that Gibbs made note of it. It was pointless on its face.

 _Which is what makes it important_ , Tony realized. _Walking the plank? What happens when you walk the plank?_

 _You end up in the water and drown. So is that supposed to mean our cold case stiff from San Francisco Bay? Ducky said the guy died before he hit the water. Then again, Navy ships don't have planks any more. Who has planks? Pirates. We don't have any pirates…_

Tony blinked and looked down that keys under his fingers. He sighed and hung his head as the answer came to him (irritatingly in McGee's voice—the one he used when acting as grammar police). _Pirate_ , the voice said, _is a noun but the word could also be a verb._ Tony lifted the phone and again hit the third number on his call list once again. As McGee answered, Tony made a special request.

"Get me the data you've managed to decrypt from that laptop you pirated last summer for DHS," he said. "I need anything that looks, sounds, tastes, or feels like it might involve hospitals, doctors, patients, prescriptions, medications or medical procedures of any kind, particularly if it starts in the 1980s or has a connection to that decade in anyway."

"That's all classified," McGee said. "I can't just email it to you. Besides, you're not working."

"Hey, I don't have the cell number of a certain former DC Madam to keep me and my wizarding wan from betting lonely day or night," Tony scoffed.

"I'm not emailing you classified information over an unsecure network," McGee replied.

"Secure fax?" Tony offered and heard a mighty sigh on the other end. "Yeah, I know, you think it's completely Jurassic as far as technology goes, but it's also more secure than email right? McGee, I have clearance to see the information. I just don't have the ability to get to the office seeing as I can't drive when I take my really good meds. Plus, Gibbs would have me turned around if I even try to get past the front gate. I have a secure, encrypted fax machine. Don't ask why I have. It was something Director Shephard had me use a few times when I was working undercover for her, and I never returned it."

"This is like hundreds of documents, Tony," McGee complained.

"Hey, it's not like you have much else to do," he said. "You're still grounded like me. You'll get to go out in the field again before I do, but right now, you're just sitting at your desk waiting for mindless paperwork to come your way. So the way I see it, you can either fax the pages, or you can read them to me over the phone. Your choice."

McGee groaned then sighed.

"You better have enough paper because I'm not bringing you any," McGee grumbled. "And you need to shred everything after you're done with it."

"Thank you," Tony said. "You are my McGirl Friday on this one."

"Your what?" McGee asked.

"I'm referencing _His Girl Friday_ , the legendary comedy directed by Howard Hawks starting Cary Grant as Walter Burns, the demanding news editor, and Rosalind Russel as Hildy Johnson, his feisty yet reliable female reporter," he began to explain but stopped as he heard a click. "McGee? Did you just hang up on me? Wow. That's exactly what Hildy would do to Walter. Nice."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** More to come…


	54. Chapter 54

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Interrogation Room_**

The room was hot—both the air and the tempers. Vance stood at the table's edge with eyes and jaw muscles bulging. Gibbs sat rigidly in the chair staring unblinkingly across the table at the man seated opposite him sweating and swallowing profusely.

"I don't know what I'm doing in here," Bill Curly, self-proclaimed leading lab assistant trembled. "Agent Gibbs, Director…. I think there's been a big mistake."

"You're damn right there's been a mistake," Vance seethed. "I shouldn't have let Agent Gibbs talk me out of tossing you on a plane to Cuba as an enemy combatant! I hope you got a good look at the sun when you came in this morning because that is the las time you're ever going to see it."

Curly shook as though seated naked on a block of ice. From the pained and horrified expression on his face, that might have been a more comfortable circumstance. Everything had happened to fast. He had come into work and gone to the lab, like he always did. He received a message that Gibbs wanted him in the squad room. It seemed like a dream come true. An entire year of busting his butt to show he was more than just a lab tech and could do so much more for the agency's major case squad than run simple lab tests was finally paying off. Early in the week, he was given a heads up that Gibbs had a special project for him. He was being invited into the inner sanctum. When he later learned that McGee was still benched for desk duty and had allegedly been reassigned to desk duty with JAG—that was the kiss of death for an agent.

To Curly, that meant two things. First, there was an opening on Gibbs' team (and he was in prime position to fill it). Next, his other activities had gone unnoticed and he would now be able to slip free of that entanglement.

But that's not what happened.

Instead, as the elevator to the squad room floor opened, he was met by two unsmiling agents then dragged (his feet literally off the carpet) to the interrogation room where he met the murderous glares of the two most intimidating men in the agency.

"I want a lawyer," Curly squeaked.

"If we charge you with terrorism, you don't have any rights," Vance said.

"We haven't actually charged you with anything," Gibbs offered. "No right to lawyer until you're charged."

Curly nodded, not sure why he was doing so, but he cut his eyes at the door. If he wasn't being charged, then he believed that meant he could leave. However, his slight glance elicited an unfriendly chuckle from Gibbs.

"Yeah, that's not a good idea," the agent said. "You leave, then you're fleeing Federal questioning…"

"Which solidifies the allegation that you're a terrorist," Vance continued. "So it's in your best interest to start talking. Now."

Curly stammered and stuttered his ignorance for being in the room and what they believed he had done for another minute or two. When they confronted him with his text messages and emails, he knew he was busted. He thought he had deleted all traces of them.

"We have people who can make things that disappeared reappear," Gibbs explained mildly.

"We also have the ability to make things disappear," Vance said.

"People, too," Gibbs added. "It would be a good idea for you to give us a reason not to put you in either of those categories. Start talking. Now."

It was hardly the most difficult interrogation either man ever conducted. Gibbs had been convinced Bishop, even on her first day, could have got Curly to crack. The trick was to get as much as they could before he got wise to the idea he should hold something back and start stonewalling for a deal. There would be no deal, but his tactics could delay things further—and the investigation with its many twists and delays had taken more than a year already. Parsons, with Fornell's team, was starting its roundup of all the identified outside players. Several teams of NCIS agents around the globe were serving warrants on the enlisted men and women linked to the drug ring. There was still several big and unhooked fish out there, and Curly was what would help land those catches.

"You don't understand," Curly pleaded as he spilled his guts about when he began informing on the NCIS investigation's progress and how he did so. "They made me. They know things about me—about everybody it seems. Stuff that… I had no choice but to help them."

Gibbs scoffed. McGee had no choice when he got shot. Tony had no choice when he got his bones broken. Curly had plenty of options.

"Even when your only options are between a rock and a hard place, there's still a choice," Vance asserted. "You made the wrong one."

"My fiancée's little sister is in trouble," Curly said. "She got messed up with things she shouldn't at college. She's not a good person and… She's involved with these people. They made threats, credible ones against her and Karen, my fiancée, and me. These guys will kill them—all of us."

"Why didn't you come to one of us?" Gibbs asked.

Curly shook his head miserably.

"They'd know," he insisted. "Didn't you hear me? They'd have killed Karen—you know what that would be like. I couldn't risk that. They'd have killed me, too. I didn't want to help them—I didn't think I was, not really. They wanted to know what was going on, what we knew about drugs on Navy ships. We didn't have any obvious open investigations about that, not as far as I could see, but then they asked about some names and where agents were going and why."

"What names did you give them?" Vance demanded. "What else did you tell them? You let them know we were sending agents to the warehouse in Norfolk, didn't you? You set McGee and DiNozzo up to be killed. That's accessory to attempted murder. Since they're Federal agents nearly killed in the line of duty in Virginia, that's a death penalty offense. Same with the shooting of Pamela Reeves—also in Virginia. Body count on your score card is racking up. Even if you were getting one, no lawyer on the planet could save you."

"What?" Curly blinked. "No. You can't. I mean, I didn't. I never! I wouldn't. They wanted the names of people you were investigation and getting warrants on—nothing more… and yes, I did tell them about you all going to Norfolk, but I didn't know what they were doing. I didn't know they would plant a bomb."

Gibbs shook his head and seethed as they moved through a year's worth of information on Curly's activities in the evidence garage, taking out exhibits pertaining to the shooting in Afghanistan (several bullets were now missing), altering other evidence logs to open room for doubt if the case ever reached trial, and his insidious communication with figures he claimed he did not know personally.

"Look, I only touched the evidence if I figured it didn't matter," Curly argued. "The guy who shot Agent McGee is dead. There was no case there. As for Reeves… well… I figured if Gibbs' team was arresting her then what was the harm of telling someone that. This whole thing is about drugs, right? Well, what was one less drug pusher on the street? That's actually more helpful than it is harmful."

Gibbs sighed. He'd heard vigilante arguments many times before but never offered in such paltry and pathetic tones. The guy thought he was fighting crime and being slick about it while also protecting his own hide.

"Names," Gibbs insisted.

"Pamela Reeves," Curly swallowed. "Kyle Renner. You already know their names. What these guys did to them saved us the time, trouble, and cost of trials."

Vance's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. The muscles in his jaw bunched as he leaned aggressively over the table and spoke in a low and dark voice.

"They were witnesses," the director said. "We were taking them into protective custody."

Gibbs laughed in a mirthless way as he looked at Vance. His voice took on a callous tone.

"Maybe we should do the same to him," he remarked flippantly. "His friends might save us the time and trouble of trying him for conspiracy to murder and accessory to murder."

"What?" Curly gaped. "No. I didn't know. I was just doing what they said. They were going to kill us. They were…"

"Who are they?" Gibbs asked boldly. "Names. Locations. Everything you know. You tell us now or you're going to wish they were the ones talking to you."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _JAG Headquarters_**

Friday morning found McGee being escorted to the third floor of the Navy's prosecution nerve-center. The court where McGee occasionally testified was on the fifth floor. The third floor was the one he liked to avoid—that was where the lawyers dwelled. He was there to meet with two of the naval officers—neither of whom liked him very much and neither of whom he preferred to see; although, given the choice, he would choose to speak to Commander Roberts and weather the man's critical stares when it came to discussion of what actions McGee may or may not have taken when it came to exercising his computer skills. Tony had a theory about that; he was certain Roberts was jealous of McGee's skills. McGee didn't care what the root of the disapproval was; he just didn't like it being pointed at him.

McGee entered the bustling room and was directed to the outer office of the head of the unit, Admiral Nathan Bates, the Judge Advocate General. The door to the leader's office was closed and, McGee hoped, it would remain that way. The last thing he needed was an entanglement with an admiral that day—particularly one that had been friends with his father. McGee waited nervously, his thoughts were on what was supposed to be happening at the office that day rather than whatever case brought him to Falls Church.

"Special Agent McGee," the clipped and cold tones of Commander Faith Coleman snarled at the agent, startling him from his wandering thoughts. "Commander Roberts and I will be with you shortly. You can sit here outside the Admiral's office until we come for you. The admiral's yeoman can get you some coffee. Our conference is moving slowly."

McGee nodded and grimaced as he turned to face her.

"Conference regarding what?" McGee asked. "Ma'am, I have no idea why I'm here."

Coleman snorted an offered a disapproving look.

"Commander Roberts is trying new tactics courtesy of his new outside assistance," she said sourly. "Whatever he's trying bringing you in is apparently going to waste my time and yours. For the record, I will fillet you on the stand if he puts you up as anything other than a character witness—and if he does that, I'll have you for lunch."

At the mention of the meal, a thought popped into McGee's head and prompted him to speak without thinking.

"Agent Reynolds says hello," McGee remarked then blinked in surprise.

He never purposefully spoke to Commander Coleman. She was cold and harsh. He told Gibbs she made him uncomfortable and that was an improvement. When McGee first met the stern JAG attorney, he was flat out afraid of her. She reminded him of his father when he was displeased—just without the familiarity that let him read her mood to tell if she was just mildly displeased of full-on pissed. Seeing the hard bite to her eyes as they narrowed, he was reminded again how she did not seem to have a nice mood.

"Special Agent Todd Reynolds?" she asked. "From San Diego?"

"Yes," McGee nodded. "He called Agent Gibbs this morning, but Boss was across the room and asked me to grab his phone. While waiting for Gibbs to get to his desk, Todd and I spoke and… Well, once he knew I was coming here to speak with you he asked me to relay his greetings and mention that he would be contacting you this week."

Her expression did not change—it was as devoid of emotion as possible, like a corpse on Ducky's slab—but there was something different in her voice when she spoke.

"This week?" she repeated and received nod in reply. "Well… That's…. fine, but that doesn't change the fact I am going to make mincemeat of anything you say if we go to trial."

"And that's a big if," M. Allison Hart said as she sauntered into the room holding a paper cup of coffee and smiling with disdain. "Agent McGee, nice to see you. I hope you didn't have lunch plans. We're likely going to be in here a while as I listen to Commander Coleman demonstrate how she earned her place in this _man's_ navy."

McGee bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing or smirking. Hart scared him as well but (unlike Coleman) that abated when it appeared she was on McGee's side. However, showing his mirth or even his ease at Coleman's expense seemed unwise.

"Ms. Hart," McGee nodded in greeting as his mind zeroed in on the likely reason he was there as well. "Is this about Carter?"

"Better work on the ignorant act if you're going to sell it to the members," Coleman snarled. "I'm certain Ms. Hart thinks she can stall the proceedings long enough for you to practice sound convincing, but I'm fast tracking this one. Your friend deserted, which was bad enough, but he did it in the middle of a classified training exercise then used his training and Navy resources to stalk several members of his command and even you. Ms. Hart may be a successful lawyer in the civilian world, but the best she and Lt. Commander Scott's official representative, Commander Roberts, can hope for out of is a dishonorable discharge after he serves at least five, but more likely 10 years in Leavenworth."

McGee clenched his jaw and felt his temper rise. He felt the tips of his ears burn red. He was tired and his patience was worn thin by worry in his private life, frustration in his professional world, and a tide wave of stress over all. Gibbs gave him no guidance or hint what he was at JAG HQ to do only to find it the topic of the day was his friend and his future as either a member of the Navy scrap heap or (worse) a convict. McGee was about to open his mouth (despite all good sense and judgement inside screaming at him to be silent) when Commander Roberts appeared in the doorway.

"You haven't won yet, Commander," Roberts said in a taunting fashion. "We haven't even settled on what charges, if any, will be brought in this matter. Miss Hart has some compelling evidence that is going to undermine your entire theory."

"And Agent McGee is here why again?" Coleman asked, confirming for McGee that her entire discussion with him was simply to fish for answers and rattle his cage.

"A prudent jurist might infer at this point that he is part of that compelling evidence you don't know yet," Hart said snidely as she took a sip of her coffee. "Agent McGee, should join us for this discuss. As Commander Scott's legal representative, I should remind you that Agent McGee is in essence the Commander's proxy and legal guardian at this time."

"Tell him whatever you like after our meeting," Coleman said. "He stays here for now."

"Legally, he is allowed to hear everything that transpires—in that vein, I will be recording our discussion to play for him afterward since you are being obstructive," Hart said and patted her bag to signify she had a device to do just that. "Agent McGee, sit tight you are permitted to eavesdrop but stay here for now. Rest assured, if Commander Coleman finds herself unable to grasp reason and a few basic but pivotal points in this case I'll see that you are formally invited to join us. Until then, please have a seat."

Roberts grinned in a victorious manner as Coleman's face pinched sourly. He cleared his throat as he turned to face McGee.

"Yeah, make yourself at home," he said then added quickly. "Just don't touch anything that has a keyboard."

McGee casually looked at the system set up on the yeoman's desk and wrinkled his nose at the rudimentary system he saw.

"Nothing of interest here," he remarked. "Playing with these systems would be like being in detention… in grade school."

Roberts scowled but gestured to the two woman to follow him into the conference room next door. McGee watched them go, wishing he had asked where Scott was and how he was faring. With everything that had occurred recently, his friend and his plight had slipped McGee's mind. He sighed and slouched with guilt as the door to the conference room closed.

"Oh to be a fly on the wall in that room," and unfamiliar voice said just over McGee's shoulder.

"Parabolic mic could listen through these walls without trouble," McGee shrugged. "Actually, I saw Commander Coleman carrying a Motorola Moto XT 1032. There's a bug in the OS that can be overridden with free source walkie-talkie app and a couple quick tweaks. Wouldn't take much more than three minutes to turn it on and listen to everything they're saying."

He heard the chuckle and was slowly turning his head as the man replied.

"That legal?" he asked.

"We're in Virginia," McGee replied. "The state code is a one-party consent so with just one of them consenting I'm allowed to intercept or record any wire, oral or electronic communication from the room."

McGee blanched as he turned fully and spied the stars on the man's shoulder boards. Admiral Bates smiled broadly as he nodded.

"Go on," Bates commanded.

McGee swallowed but kept his eyes level and his voice as steady as possible while hoping he wasn't blushing furiously in embarrassment as he continued.

"Miss Hart stated clearly that she will be recording everything said in the meeting, so there is no claim to privacy in that room," McGee said. "Futher, when she announced she was doing that she also gave me consent to eavesdrop. Knowing her, she probably expects me to do just that…. uh, sir."

He threw in the word at the end as he felt his resolve wavering.

"I see," Bates nodded gruffly. "Do you want to rephrase any of that Special Agent McGee?"

McGee's gut reaction was yes, he would like to take all of it back and simply remain silent, if only to save him the trouble of this entire conversation and (probably) an explanation to Vance when he returned. Being mouthy to the head of JAG was not something that would find favor with anyone at NCIS other than Gibbs. However, that thought stiffened McGee's spin again.

"There would be no point recanting any of it seeing as it was all factual, sir," McGee said feeling guilty all the same. "I suppose, given the option to relive this moment, saying nothing at all was possibly a better option; however, that wouldn't change the facts or the legal analysis."

"Uh huh," Bates nodded. "What you said about your right to bug that room a minute ago is one of the most arrogant things I've heard since I took over this office 10 months ago. Considering the brass that traipses through here, that is saying something, son."

McGee swallowed. He rarely got called arrogant. He was chiding for his lack of humility whenever he felt the need to do degree comparison with someone who tried to make him feel stupid. In fact, the one-time Bishop ever gave him a McName was on one of those circumstances when she whispered a reproachful "McHumble" under her breath in warning to him for crossing swords with a computer programmer they were questioning.

"Yes, sir," McGee simply agreed although his contrition and guilt were evidence in his voice and expression.

Bates' eyes narrowed and his mouth grew tight until a rolling rumble burst from his chest and poured over his lips. He smiled widely and clapped McGee on the shoulder, evincing a wince from the agent, while holding out his hand in greeting.

"Admiral Nathan Bates," he said unnecessarily introducing himself. "You must be Special Agent Timothy McGee. I knew your father. He was a good man. My condolences on his passing. The Navy still feels his loss."

"Yes, sir," McGee nodded and kept his face neutral as he did any time someone made such a statement.

He got used to many people offering such words about his father. His death still resonated with many of the highest ranking officers in the Navy. Even before his passing, discovering McGee's family tree often piqued the interest of career naval officers. John McGee was a legend. He climbed rapidly in his career. After a lifetime living in the man's shadow, McGee was used to encountering people who either knew John McGee or wanted to know him. Years later, when McGee joined the law enforcement wing of the Navy, he found fewer and fewer people in those circles who had an attachment to his father—a ringing endorsement for the man's integrity and a weight point in the man's persistent arguments that working for NCIS did not bring his son in contact with the right kind of people.

"You'd better step into my office so we can talk," Bates said. "I doubt there will be any breaks in that meeting or any deals brokered anytime soon. Besides, I suspect Leon sent you over here to convince me to intervene before my officers make their recommendations to me in writing about what we should do regarding Commander Scott."

"Director Vance?" McGee questioned and shook his head as he followed the admiral into his office. "I was sent here by Special Agent Gibbs."

"Agent Gibbs is a poker player," Bates remarked. "If he and Leon teamed up, they could probably rake in a fortune in a weekend in Vegas. Your supervisor convinced the head of his agency to persuade me to take this meeting while at the same time getting my attorneys to call you in and make the meeting convenient. He might not like politics, but your boss is good at them."

"Director Vance or Agent Gibbs?" McGee wondered as the admiral gestured for him to take a seat in one of the leather chairs opposite the man's large desk.

"Both of them," Bates said as he took his seat once more. "I've got some questions for you, Agent McGee. I will cross examine you about your answers so be truthful and thorough. I know you want to help Commander Scott, but I need the truth before I can decide what should happen here. The very second I think you're holding out on me or advocating for your friend at the expense of the truth, this meeting will end. Got that?"

McGee nodded firmly and folded his hands in his lap. He felt just as he did when his father would interrogate him in his childhood about… anything. The man never held a comfortable or casual conversation with his son, ever. _And people wonder why I sometimes would freeze up taking tests_ , McGee mused.

"Okay," Bates began. "I need to know everything you know about Commander Scott's disappearance from his assigned duties last summer leading up to his arrest at your home in Arlington last month. Start at the beginning. When you're done, I want to know how in the hell you rigged an earwig to override a timer on a bomb—that's got nothing to do with whatever conclusions I will reach in this meeting about Commander Scott. I've just been curious ever since I heard what you did in Norfolk."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Tony's Apartment_**

The hum of the air conditioner was droning in Tony's ears. His father had stopped by in the morning to let him know he planned on cooking dinner for the both of them that evening. Tony was slightly suspicious of why but did not have the interest in pursuing a line of questioning. His brain was slowly shutting down with nothing to do that excited him as he waited for his ailments to mend. Feeling confined, he grabbed his phone and dialed the only other person he knew who might be able to sympathize.

"Is this going to be an obscene phone call?" Abby asked as she answered. "As a married woman, I shouldn't participate in those with anyone other than McGee. As someone who is bored to tears, I would take any kind of distraction you can offer."

Tony gaped for a moment, feeling at loss for words before chuckling.

"I knew I could count on you," he said. "Unfortunately, I have nothing obscene keyed up so this will just need to be a whining session about life and the weather. You up for that?"

"I'm up for anything as long as up doesn't include moving," she sighed. "I know my excuse. What's yours? I mean, for feeling like you're in a funk. You're allowed to go out and get around."

Tony groaned his lack of things to do when he went out. There was the issue of his head not feeling completely normal yet. There was the issue of not having anyone to do anything with when he went out. At first, he thought it was just a care of boredom but the more he thought about it, the darker and sadder his thoughts became.

"I'm worried," Tony confessed. "For the first time in my life, I feel old."

"I think you're just frustrated and tired because you're recovering," Abby counseled. "Trust me. I know about tired and frustrated and not being able to do anything about it. It takes all my energy and concentration to stay focused lately. Like yesterday, I spent just an hour in the afternoon reading through one of Larry's ballistic analysis reports—it was only four pages long but I had to read it like six times before I could get my head on straight. I mean, when I did, I found one conclusion that he missed. We talked for a bit and he was startled he missed it but so happy I found it. I ended the call feeling whipped but also thinking I was pretty slick."

She paused and Tony waited, wondering what was coming next that he would find enlightening.

"So what?" he prompted.

"Well, then Tim came home and made me dinner," Abby replied. "When I finished eating, I got up from the couch and took the four steps to the little room near the kitchen where the washing machine is and put my plate in the laundry."

Tony tried to keep his chuckle quiet but found it impossible. He threw his head back and laughed heartily for a solid minute. Tears streamed down his face as he heard Abby make a similar sound as they tried to regain their composure.

"What did McGee do?" Tony asked gasping for breath.

"He just followed me," Abby continued to laugh while wiping her eyes. "He had no idea what to say to me. He just looked at me and said ' _Ok, let me take care of that_.' Then he just walked me upstairs to our room to rest. After he did that, he hid in the computer room downstairs for like an hour. I think he spent part of it chatting with his mother asking her if I was losing my mind."

Abby snorted and pressed her hand to her mouth as her face flushed pink with embarrassment. Tony finally managed a deep, restoring breath as the grin on his face remained.

"I tell you this just so you know that you're not the only one who's off his or her game right now," she explained. "You're gonna be as good as new soon, Tony. Just give it a little more time. When Timmy was hurt last summer, he was frustrated and felt useless for a while, too. You just need to give yourself time to heal."

Tony didn't think his injury, a badly broken bone and a few other fractures, compared to a gunshot wound but didn't bother to say so. Abby's point was well taken. Time was the great healer. Of course, not all aches were caused by injuries. Some were caused by absences and voids of another nature. Being out of work left him with too much time to himself. That was time to think; time to notice how quiet it was in his apartment; time to feeling loneliness.

"Thanks for that, Abs," he said sincerely. "I'll keep it in mind. As for you, should you be trying to do the dishes, whether in the sink or with your laundry? I thought you were supposed to be in the lounging mode right now?"

She sighed both perturbed at the chiding but also at the medical reasons why such a question was both valid and not entirely unexpected at this point.

"You're as bad as McGee," she said but without any acid in her voice. "My doctor said a little bit of moving around in the house is okay. Being still is not natural for me, but I'm giving it my best. I'm allowed to walk the 10 feet from the couch to the kitchen without Tim hovering; I just can't convince him of that."

Tony scoffed thinking he could hardly blame the guy. Their recent scare involving their unborn gremlins had worried Tony, who was frankly a little freaked by the idea of the mini-McGee still.

"Well, you're lugging around the whole family in 90 degree heat," he remarked. "We bitch and moan to each other about carrying 15 pounds of gear from the car to the crime scene. You're doing more than that."

She sighed her agreement but found she was not worried in the same fashion as her husband and his coworkers.

"I know, but I'm a woman so we're stronger and better than that by nature," she assured Tony. "Besides, if there's one thing I've learned in life it's this: It's never the weight you lug that causes trouble. It's how you carry it."

Abby then paused, feeling this was a perfect and sage moment for reflection on his part. From the protracted silence that followed, she sensed he was not thinking about backpacks or crime scene gear any longer. The weight of Abby's silence was 10 times heavier than Tony's work bag. He felt as though she could see through the phone line and into his head; that she could read the depressing thoughts that plagued him now. Whenever he listened to the radio, the songs mocked him. Whenever he watched a movie or TV, the emptiness in his life felt so present and profound.

"Don't say it," he shook his head. "I don't want to hear that this injury gave me time and a chance at some much needed perspective, or that I'm questioning my mortality or my life choices. I'm not ready to have that kind of mid-life crisis right now. I'll concede that recently I may have realized, rather abruptly, that I'm not getting any younger. I accept that 40 is in the rearview mirror, and I'm a single guy who spends more than half of his time with a grizzled and grouchy old Marine and a lot of my non-working hours talking to two fish."

"And?" Abby asked knowingly.

Tony was ready to deflect with a joke, but he stopped as he heard the sincerity in her voice. He deflated and sighed.

"Maybe it was something of a wakeup call for me to realize that I am… for once… maybe just the slightest, teensy, bit envious of McGee," he said dejectedly.

He shuddered briefly as he said it out loud. That didn't seem to make it any better. In fact, it made it worse as he spied Abby nodding understandingly.

"I know," she cooed sympathetically.

He got that she would support her spouse if there was a matter up for debate, but outright agreeing without any details felt a bit like betrayal of their long-term friendship.

"You don't even know why I feel that way, but you're agreeing with me?" Tony scoffed. "I just realized it myself a few hours ago. It's not what you think. It's not because I was injured a bit more than him and it's taking me longer to bounce back, Abs."

"I know that, too," she agreed. "You're tired of feeling like you're alone. You've had your father around, which is great, but it's not all the family you thought you would have around at this point in your life. You want a family of your own, but you feel like you've missed out or that you've run out of time. Those feelings have made you a little grouchy and snappish to Tim this week. You consider him your younger brother. As the older sibling, you're supposed to do everything first, but he didn't follow those rules and he got there ahead of you on the family front. He's married, and we're going to have a family soon. You and Zoe broke up a while ago, then Ziva showed up again so you're all twisted up inside and you don't have work to channel all those anxious feelings into so you're feeling miserable."

Tony blinked and gaped for a few seconds as his ears buzzed with the accuracy of her statements. Hearing his thoughts in someone else's voice didn't help any. If anything, it gave weight and validity to those desperate thoughts that snuck up on him in quiet moments. Hearing Abby agreeing with them and offering a sympathetic bend to them torpedoed his counter argument that they were just fueled by his mopey feelings from being unwillingly on medical leave.

But that didn't mean he was prepared to accept it without a fight.

"This is not about Ziva," Tony said quickly.

Perhaps too quickly, he suspected.

"It's no wonder you're confused and questioning everything," Abby continued without pause. "I know you're feeling lost and kind of lonely, but you don't need to—we all know you'll figure it out."

Tony gaped at her insightfulness and understanding. Not that Abby lacked those things normally, but considering she was running her lab from her couch, worried almost to distraction about the two human beings growing in her gut, and managing to have something of a normal home life with McGee, Tony he thought it was impressive she had found the time and opportunity to notice his sadness.

"Is it that obvious?" he asked sheepishly.

"Not overly, but Tim and I compare notes," Abby revealed. "He's been worried about you."

"I do not need nor do I want any McPity," Tony asserted. "I've been laying low like the doctor said, and I'm just fine."

"He actually started worrying about you when you both were actually in the warehouse in Norfolk," she explained. "It started when you were shouting at him to leave you there and get himself to safety by leaving you behind. He told me what you said to him that day. He was bothered by the fact that you had deemed his life worth more than yours. He was touched by it and he understood why you said it, but it bothered him all the same. He hadn't figured out a time or a way to talk to you about it so I offered to do it instead. You wanted him to make it home to be with his family, but we both want you to know that you're our family, too, Tony. I understand that it can be hard to be happy when you feel like everything you want is out of reach, but Tim and I both think you're not destined to live this bachelor life."

Tony nodded as he grimaced. He forgot sometimes that he taught McGee knew a thing or two about solving complicated cases. His partner didn't have an extroverted personality that could suck the air out of a room without trying, but the guy was definitely good at listening and learning from what he heard. That he had read more in Tony's order to save his own ass than Tony intended to broadcast was a little surprising but also a bit freeing. That neither his partner nor Abby thought Tony's chances for his own happiness were hopeless or dismal was nice to hear. That he didn't feel that way himself was a separate issue.

"Well, I think I'll be just find as long as you make sure your gruesome twosome think kindly of Uncle Tony so one of them will take care of me when I'm really old," he joked but the pain of his comment bled through.

"Don't count yourself out just yet," Abby said as she hugged him again. "I still think I'll be meeting Anthony DiNozzo the Third someday."

"So is that your roundabout way of saying you're naming your kids Anthony in my honor?" he asked hopefully.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Bethesda, Md._**

The traffic was negligible in the late afternoon. McGee clenched his jaw, nearly giving himself a headache with the pressure of it. His passenger was employing a tactic reminiscent of Tony's antics—except this one was being much more successful as he knew buttons to push that Tony did not know even existed. McGee had held firm in his refusal to go into in depth discussions with his passenger regarding what transpired at JAG that day. He was under orders and had given his word that what happened at JAG stayed at JAG.

Of course there was also the point that he wasn't sure what happened.

He answered several questions from Admiral Bates then was left waiting for an hour by himself in the admiral's office. After that, he was asked several more questions, given documents to sign, then told to make arrangements.

Those arrangements were a rush job but easy to fix. After that, he was given custody of his copilot and cut loose from Navy supervision—something he was regretting as the purposefully excessively off-key singing from the passenger seat increased in volume and gusto.

"Roxanne!" Carter Scott howled. "You don't have to put on the red light! ROXANNE!"

After 20 minutes of the same song, McGee's patience disappeared.

"Carter!" McGee snapped. "Knock it off! You know I hate that song. You know I hate your singing. You know I have no…"

"I know, but you won't tell me anything," Scott cut him off. "That makes me unhappy. When I'm unhappy, you know what happens. I get creative. When I get creative, I sing. Know what my favorite song is?"

"Whatever one bothers whoever is defying you," McGee huffed knowingly. "Seriously, Carter, do you really want to try the patience of the guy who is in charge of whether you spend another night in Federal custody?"

The manic laughter that sounded from the passenger seat wormed its way around McGee's already tense nerves. He shook his head, partially admitting defeat in the realm of keeping his friend from annoying him but holding firm to his refusal to discuss the legal matters that started the day.

"Fine," the SEAL said drumming his hands on the dashboard. "I'm giving you a drumroll here. That's so you can tell me where I'm going. You didn't tell me that when you sprung me from the joint, copper."

McGee rolled his eyes. It was like dealing with someone channeling Tony at his most juvenile. In fact, for the first time, it occurred to McGee one of the reasons he never took Tony's picking on him too seriously was because there was a certain familiarity to his childhood friend. The difference, of course, was that Scott's antics were rarely aimed at one-upmandship or making McGee the punchline. They were, however, often tailored to try his patience and illicit a definite reaction.

"Right now, I'm thinking about just cuffing you to the door and leave the car parked beside the road," McGee snarked. "Would you please stop being… you for a minute?"

Scott sighed then held up his hands in surrender. He was immensely grateful for whatever McGee had done to get him out of the protective custody (aka suicide watch—something completely unnecessary; Scott was only a threat to a certain ailing admiral in Florida). His career was in ruins, regardless of what hopeful words McGee offered him that there was still a chance for an honorable discharge. Scott's only hope at this moment was to avoid an excessive prison sentence for breaking any number of articles of the UCMJ along with the whole desertion issue.

"Where am I going?" Scott said. "We're in Maryland. Am I being humanely transferred to the looney bin here?"

"Yes," McGee said. "Just not the one you're thinking of. This is a Navy sanctioned facility run by a lunatic and her assistant. You're lucky because despite their stern demeanors, they happen to remember you fondly. Together, they're as sharp as the CIA, as sneaky as Mossad, and one of them raised the most unrelenting stickler for rules in Navy had in the last 40 years. The other was the only person to ever disobey him without repercussion."

Scott's face scrunched into a knot as he tried to decipher the identities then blinked and blanched as the answer came to him when the car pulled into a shaded driveway of a large home set back from the road.

"Your grandmother is my warden?" he asked.

"Your landlord," McGee grimaced as a blond woman stepped out onto the porch and waved at them. "My mother is actually your warden. She arrived in town two days ago unexpectedly—well, unexpectedly for me. Apparently, Penny knew since last week that she was coming."

"She didn't come here to play prison guard over me, did she?" Scott asked with a slight tremor of fear in his voice that McGee found encouraging.

Scott was always fond of McGee's mother and grandmother, going out of his way to be on his best behavior whenever they were around. That was one of the motivations behind his decision to ask for them to accept responsibility for him while he waited for his official discharge from the Navy. He was still required to see his appointed therapist weekly and check in with NCIS twice daily (along with wearing an ankle monitor to ensure he did not travel more than 20 feet from Penny's home without prior permission and while being accompanied by an NCIS agent).

"No, she's here to invade my life, but I found another job for her: your life," McGee nodded and smiled. "You're doing me a huge favor here, and I won't forget it. Don't get me wrong, Abby and I would love to see my mother. We just don't need or want her moving in with us right now. Abby needs a no stress environment. A well-intentioned but hovering mother-in-law at her heels all day won't accomplish that."

Scott nodded, not really listening or understanding as he grew nervous. He swallowed hard and felt like he did at age 10 the first time he met McGee's family. They were so unlike the life he knew at home. They were close and respectful. His mother was pointedly interested in her children's lives and was so completely proper in every way that Scott was intimidated by her. Now, decades later even after nearly 20 years in the service with medals and commendations to his credit, he felt the same. McGee chuckled as he watched his friend quickly run his hand through his hair and straighten his collar so that he looked presentable before getting out of the car.

"Now, if you act like a good sailor, she might let you have a cookie after dinner," McGee teased quietly as his mother approached. "Hi, Mom."

"Timothy," Carol smiled widely. "You looked tired. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," McGee said then turned his pointed gaze at Scott. "Carter, however, has had it rough for a bit. If you and Penny are sure it's no trouble, it would be a great help if you could… take care of him."

He could feel the dagger glare from his friend at the back of his head but grinned. The Navy might think the soon-to-be former SEAL was dangerous—and he was, to the enemy. Under the watchful gazes of two women he grew shy and bashful around, the world-weary Lt. Commander was about as worrisome as a tired puppy.

"Oh, you poor dear," Carol cooed as she walked around the car to embrace Scott. "You look more tired than Timothy. Come inside. Penny is making something I can't pronounce but she swears a Hindu mystic taught her to prepare. Allegedly, it cures everything from athlete's foot to pancreatitis."

"I'll be passing on that," McGee said. "Carter, however, is completely into that exotic stuff. Right, Carter? You wouldn't want to disappoint Penny, would you?"

His friend glared at McGee and the SEAL's face blushed red as he shook his head. The hard bite to his eyes drew a grin on McGee's face. What Scott needed was rest and mothering for a while as his lawyer worked out the intricate details that would set him fully free and make arrangements for the treatment he needed.

"Of course not," Scott replied through clenched teeth despite the relaxed feeling that started to spread through his body as Carol looped her arm through his to lead him to the house. "I'll pay you back for this one day, buddy. I mean that."

"Hey, no need," McGee continued to grin as he followed his mother and friend. "This is just my way of thanking you for Mr. Tickles the cat. I knew one day I could repay you for that. Now, I have. It's like we're even finally."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Green Bank, WV_**

It had taken two solid weeks of puzzling over the riddles in Kort's information and sifting through the documents McGee reluctantly sent Tony before he found what he was looking for: three names.

There were three people he was able to identify that the DEA's dirtiest official had managed to make disappear during the late 1980s and early 1990s. According to Bishop, Johnson had slipped through Fornell's dragnet and as rumored to be in a locale without an extradition treaty. That just increased Tony's desire to root out even more of the man's secrets. After all, it was his betrayal that led to an increase in the drug trafficking trade in the country; his nefarious deal that set Pedro Hernandez free so that he was around to kill Gibbs' family; his slippery shenanigans that expanded the drug ring in the Navy from a few sailors smuggling in grass to a multimillion dollar enterprise that now shuttled cocaine and heroine in copious amounts into the US and onto naval basese around the world.

The roundup for all of that was moving along nicely with JAG both screaming at NCIS for not giving them much heads up for all the charges they would be looking to file and grudgingly congratulating the armed agency for busting the largest drug ring in US history. The FBI was keeping their part in things quiet, which let Tony know there were still some persons of interest not yet in their snare.

In an effort to help them, Tony turned his skills to Johnson's three prized people. Well, Tony figured they were somehow prized. The man gave them new identities and set them up with an annuity to keep them not precisely well off but able to avoid needing to labor hard to survive. The first was obviously a family member of a cartel leader. The guy was on the slow side and surely would have been a liability to the cartel. Having a brother who was not able to dress himself without instructions and encouragement was certainly a detriment to their cutthroat operation. Tony thought it showed that at one point Johnson apparently had a heart. He got the mentally disabled man a place in a state sponsored home and saw that his bills were paid regularly. The man had a heart defect as well which, further research showed, ended up being his demise four years earlier.

The second name belonged to a drug dealer who nearly died in a shooting with Border Patrol agents. While convalescing, the man claimed he found God and repented. He was given a new identity and set up at an orphanage run by some Greek Orthodox priests in New Jersey. Tony felt horrible about doing it, but he tipped the FBI off about the guy. The man had skated on a murder charge in 1989 and the cop in Tony couldn't let that slide no matter what the man was doing lately.

The final discovery came late one evening when Tony was about ready to give up. He wasn't sure he had an actual person identified until he looked over the medical documents one last time. Kort's chiding about medical information and computers had bothered him sufficiently that he suspected this was the information he was pointed Gibbs at all the time. When Tony put it together, he figured out what Kort was doing.

Johnson wasn't a vicious man. He had used his power and influence to assist drug cartels in order to gain wealth, but the man had a conscience. That's why he helped the handicapped man and the one who saw the light and claimed to change his ways. When Tony discovered the references and accounts pertaining to the woman, he did not hop on the phone. His first instinct was that this woman was Johnson's lover, a kept woman who he hid for years. The money paid to her monthly was moderate—well less than Tony's salary—but it was enough to live on in a rural area, which was precisely what she did.

Eager to get out and breathe the fresh air, Tony roused Bishop from bed on a Saturday morning and cajoled her into taking a field trip with him. She was bubbling with questions and cautions the whole two hour drive from DC to the small town in the middle of nowhere, but Tony was happy to fill in the blanks.

As they arrived in the small town of West Bank, they stopped by the gas station (yes, there was but one as far as the map was concerned) and asked a few questions. After receiving the answers, they took the meandering slow drive into the rest of the town with Tony's pulse quickening with each yard. It was like being on the hunt again, being back in the field, he could feel his linger aches begin to evaporate.

"What are you looking for specifically?" Bishop asked. "Just this woman or are you hoping to do more than just see her? We're not arresting her. We're not doing anything, Tony. We have no authority. This is Fornell's territory—all non-Navy personnel in this thing are off limits to us."

"Yeah, I know," Tony said testily as her harping began to drag down his heady feelings of usefulness. "Look, I have a plan, okay? Just go with me on this."

"I did go with you," Bishop replied as she parked the car on the roadside. "Is all this a joke? Not that I don't like giving up my Saturday to play chauffer for you, but if this is some sort of scavenger hunt/hazing thing you're doing to me, it's a little late. I'm not a probationary agent anymore. Is this like the way you treat McGee? Should I be flattered or worried?"

"I would never be flattered if anyone treats you like McGee," Tony counseled. "That's a punishment. And, to answer your earlier questions, I am not hazing you. We're…. working. Sort of."

"You're not allowed to work yet—not on NCIS business," she reminded him.

"I'm a creature of habit, an investigation junkie, a crime hound, Ellie," he persisted. "I can't just sit back and do nothing until I'm allowed back at the office. Like I told you, I've been looking into some of the things McGee and the digit heads in the cyber unit found in that laptop last summer. Johnson, that DEA agent, he had help."

"Yeah, I know," Bishop nodded. "Drug dealers. We arrested a bunch of them recently. It's been on the news."

"I mean, I found out that he had Federal help," he shook his head. "Namely, there was a US Marshal. The guy died in 1993, but before that he helped hide a few people associated with Johnson's scheme. Think of it as sort of a retirement plan for the bad guys or their families. Johnson tapped into his riches a bit—obviously out of guilt—and got these people new identities. I figure, there have to be more than just those I've found. If I get a look at this one, it might give us something to feed to Fornell for his team to find more."

Bishop blinked.

"We're not here to arrest a drug dealer," she objected. "Tony, you're not cleared for duty."

"That's why I have you," he smirked. "Relax. We're not taking anyone in. I'm just looking. This woman one was pretty messed up apparently. She had medical bills and got sent here away from… the world."

"She?" Bishop asked.

"Yeah, according to the stuff I got from McGee, the medical data indicated it was a woman," Tony revealed. "She got a new identity when she left the hospital. Johnson siphoned money off his ill-gotten gains to pay for the treatments. It wreaks of guilt so either this one was special to Johnson or he had some other reason for keeping her safe and happy. I'm thinking mistress that he didn't have the heart to whack."

Bishop nodded. It was as logical as anything else in this case. What bothered her was that Tony was freelancing (and apparently McGee knew about it on some level but kept it quiet). Then again, there was a chance that McGee didn't fully know what Tony was doing and was too preoccupied with worry over Abby to ask.

Another thing that bothered her was their isolation. They were in the National Radio Quiet Zone, meaning no cellphones would work if they needed to call for backup. Tony may have assured her they were just in town to take a peek, but everything she learned at FLETC said this was a mistake.

"Does this woman have a name?" Bishop asked.

"Sharon Walker," Tony replied as he unfolded a map. "According to the guy at the gas station a few miles back, she lives in the small white bungalow with the green shutters and the front flowerbeds full of roses. I'm thinking it's that one right there."

He pointed to the tiny, well-kept home that had thick shrubs of roses bleeding through the picket fence. Kneeling beside them was an older woman wearing a floppy tan hat and clothing that looked like gardening was a frequent hobby. Tony jerked his head toward Bishop and started forward.

The woman must have had eyes in the back of her head—another point in Tony's scorecard for her being a wanted woman. She had radar like Ziva but the cool continence of Gibbs. She turned to look at her approaching visitors, hiding partially under her floppy hat and large, dark sunglasses. Her mouth and face were notably devoid of lines, although the texture of the skin didn't look like it was cosmetically done. She just appeared to be someone who didn't smile or laugh a lot.

"Sharon Walker?" Tony called to her as he and Bishop approached.

"You're not undercover or covert," Walker replied undaunted. "Agent Johnson finally retiring and passing the baton to the next generation of babysitters?"

Tony's jaw dropped.

She wore a pair of faded and dirt scarred jeans, a short sleeve shirt liberally flecked with potting soil, and a sun-faded ball cap that held back a main of red hair with streaks of silver in it. She had a delicate bone structure and freckled skin that showed some but not all of its age. Her face was heart shaped and was easily identifiable from the one picture of her Tony had ever seen. His heart quickened and he blinked rapidly. His mind was a tornado of questions and doubts. He knew he was basically recovered from his skull fracture. The headaches were virtually gone. There were no more vision problems. His confusion had disappeared weeks ago.

Or so he thought.

What he trusted here was his gut. He swallowed dryly as Bishop took out her ID and approached the woman.

"I can't believe no one ever told you this before, but Agent Johnson left the DEA a long time ago, Mrs. Walker," Bishop began. "We're with the Naval Criminal Investigative Service."

"I stopped being _Mrs. Anyone_ long ago, too," she replied with a skeptical tone and twist on her lips. "I'm a widow."

"Actually, you're not," Tony said in a breathless and mystified way as he pulled off his sunglasses and stared at her with eyes as wide as tea saucers. "Ma'am, you've never been a widow any more than you were ever Sharon Walker."

Bishop blinked and turned her head to stare mystified at her partner. Walker pulled off her hat and wiped sweat from her brow to reveal pale skin liberally dotted with freckles and a knot of long rusty hair that lost its deep red sheen with years gardening in the sun. Still, even with years added (or perhaps because of them), Tony was swiftly losing his doubt while feelings of amazement and dread bubbled in his gut. The face was one he knew from a long time of snooping and refusing to mind his own business, from years of pondering and wondering, from nearly a decade of dreading the lingering heartbreak he saw every day that he came into the office.

"Who are you?" the woman demanded.

"I'm Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo," Tony said as he stepped forward. "This is Special Agent Eleanor Bishop. Ellie, meet Shannon Fielding Gibbs—Boss's dead wife."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** Only a little more to come…


	55. Chapter 55

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _McGee and Abby's House_**

Abby was sleeping when Tony called McGee. The senior agent was agitated and rapidly firing details at his partner at a rate that had McGee worried Tony was suffering some residual effects from his injuries weeks earlier. When Tony finally put his phone on speaker so that Bishop could participate in the discussion as well, McGee stepped out of his house.

He knew Abby likely could not hear the discussion, but he was so stunned by the news that he did not trust himself to keep his voice down. Tony and Bishop explained what had transpired in the previous two hours. McGee sat on the back stoop of his home and stared with a gaping expression at the back of Gibbs' house.

"Gibbs knows?" he asked as he processed everything they imparted.

"He does now," Tony said. "We sort of got… kicked out of the area when the FBI rolled in."

"Director Vance told us to stand down," Bishop elaborated. "This is an FBI matter because of the cross agency involvement. The US Marshal Service is implicated as well as the DEA."

McGee shook his head, not disagreeing with the jurisdictional determination but at the insanity of it all.

"Gibbs' wife has been alive all this time?" he asked for the fourth time in the discussion.

"Yep," Tony said. "I'm thinking we need a campfire to figure out what happens next. I called Ducky and filled him in just before Vance put the gag order on us. Which, of course means, I'm not telling you anything I'm telling you right now and why we need to do this at your house."

"My house?" McGee repeated.

"We can't meet in the office and discuss anything," Bishop said. "No one is supposed to know what's going on until the FBI figures out… well, what's going on. There could be people still watching Shannon for all we know."

Tony's scoffing carried clearly over the phone conveying his doubt. McGee was in agreement although he had too few details to have much confidence in such finding on his own. Still, Tony unearthed this landmine; if he was willing to discount the FBI's twitchiness, McGee was willing to support him. Annoying though Tony could be, his gut was nearly as finely tuned as Gibbs.

"If you come here, Abby's going to know," McGee said with a skeptical tone in his voice.

"I know," Tony said apologetically. "I know you're all about having a neutral zone around her right now and I get why, but this is not something we can ignore."

McGee sighed and swiftly ran through the possibilities. They could, in theory, all go to Gibbs' house and use the basement, but Abby would grow suspicious if she woke up and McGee was gone without much explanation for where he was gone and why. If she was awake and knew he was leaving, that would just jumpstart her curiosity. Both those options would also require McGee to lie to her, and considering how stunned he was by this news there was no way he could keep that secret without generating a tidal wave of worry and stress that she did not need. Then again, telling her what was going on might do the same thing as well as violate Vance's directive for them to keep the information close-hold.

"I'll tell her," McGee said. "In a lot of ways, this is good news. Just don't be surprised if she's crying when you get here. It's a fine line between her happy reactions and her sad ones lately."

As they disconnected, McGee stood up, took a deep breath and headed into the house to wake her and tell her the news.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

The quartet of NCIS employees sat on the porch at the quiet home in the Arlington suburb discussing the day's remarkable events. The air was still and thick with late summer humidity. The sky was rumbling in the west as a storm threatened to roll down the Chesapeake and deluge the Metro area. Tony reclined in a chair. McGee sat with Abby tucked under his arm while Bishop perched on the porch railing. The neighborhood was quiet and oblivious to the day's tumultuous events.

"What did you do once you realized who she was… I mean is?" McGee asked. "Did you call Gibbs or…?"

"No," Bishop shook her head. "We called Fornell."

"Why him?" Abby asked. "Didn't you want to tell Gibbs?"

Tony sighed and explained that the concern was that they did not know how safe Shannon was now that she had been outed, even in such a small way. He also stated that hiding her was part of the non-Navy part of the cartel operation the FBI was tracking, which put her very existence in FBI territory.

"I can see that, but since when has jurisdiction stopped you?" McGee wondered. "You went to find her in the first place without caring about jurisdiction or your authority to even look."

Tony smirked. His probie had a point, but it was more than the paperwork fiasco that faced him that prompted the call to Fornell. Tony was elated in many ways to have found the woman, but telling Gibbs the last 25 years of his life had been a lie was not something he wanted to do. Certainly there would be excitement and other overwhelming emotions—hell, from Gibbs any emotion showing could be overwhelming—but it seemed better to have Fornell break the news. The boss would know Tony's role in finding his long lost wife eventually. For now, the important thing was that Gibbs knew the truth and had been reunited with the woman in a safe location. Where that location was happened to be a secret to all but Fornell, his immediate security team, and the two people they were now overseeing.

"I did it because it was the right thing to do," Tony said simply to McGee's inquiry.

To his credit, McGee seemed to understand and merely nodded. Abby was less accepting but her frown was neither deep nor scolding. She merely rested her head on McGee's shoulder and sighed.

"He was here this morning," she reported. "Gibbs, I mean. Tim went to see his friend Carter at Penny's house and while he was gone Gibbs stopped by. He brought me a gift."

Bishop's eyebrows shot up but then her face scrunched. She had heard tales of Gibb's woodworking creations and the many theories about how he got the boats out of the basement. She wondered if Abby now had the answer.

"You have a boat in your basement now?" she asked.

The tension of the moment made the statement more than ludicrous but outright hilarious—at least to McGee, who laughed suddenly and had to bite his lip to cease the chuckles. Abby offered him a crinkled smile of warning as she shook her head.

"It's not a boat," she informed Bishop. "It's a rocking chair. He made me a rocking chair for the nursery."

"Oh," Bishop nodded disappointed in the lack of answer to one of the greater questions she held out her boss. "I mean, that's nice. I hear he does good work. I guess getting a rocking chair out is different process than a boat."

The truth of Gibbs' logistically impossible maneuverings remained a point of intense discussion in the McGee household. Theorizing had become a game McGee and Abby played when they were bored or overly stressed.

"He must have got the call from Fornell not long after he left here," Tony nodded then looked at his watch. "That's about eight hours ago."

Tony shook his head as an antique Morgan rolled down the street and parked at the curb. From it stepped Ducky wearing a bewildered but bright expression. He greeted his colleagues with a curt nod as he joined them on the porch. His expression was the same mixture of shock and confusion the rest of them wore.

"Did you talk to Gibbs?" Tony asked as Ducky settled himself beside Bishop with a sigh.

Ducky nodded and stated they had a brief discussion more than an hour earlier. He anticipated the next question: How was Gibbs taking the news? The answer surprised none of them. The obvious details of disbelief, shock, urgency, and stoicism rolled off the medical examiner's tongue.

"Of course, how Gibbs behaved in private when he was brought to Shannon is anyone's guess," Ducky said. "I come with other news as well—not related to Gibbs, not directly anyway. While we have had one individual raised from the dead today, another who was orbiting our sphere has officially passed on. I received a call from the medical center at Naval Station Mayport. Due to the man's rank and as a formality, his body will be sent to Washington for his official autopsy despite there being no question how or why he died, but at 2:30 p.m. today Admiral Paul Porter died."

Tony looked flatly at Ducky, knowing the man got off too easily but simply glad the world was rid of him. He then swiveled his eyes carefully toward McGee. He noted Ducky and Bishop did the same; however, McGee showed no reaction other than a slight tilt of his head as of to state "oh well." For those who knew most of what Porter had done, his dying ended any chance they had to question the man further or charge him with his many crimes. As it was so far, the forensic accounting specialists had been unable to link his sizeable bank accounts to anything other than legitimate investments and legal dividend payments. Tony was sure the man got money for his involvement in the drug smuggling, but proving that and seizing the funds was proving impossible. Even Parsons' searches and inquiries hit a dead end.

There was, unfortunately, another reason for that.

That leg of the investigation was slowly reaching the maddening but definitely possible conclusion that Porter had not received monetary kickbacks for his efforts with the drug cartel after all. There was evidence of blackmail and coercion by the cartel for certain—the attempt to kill McGee had been part of the latest round of persuasion and punishment for Porter. Tony, however, believe it was not all stick beating to keep the man in line. He had other suspicions involving enticement—a carrot and stick approach that likely kept Porter participating for so many years. He thought it highly as possible that when the man's handlers wanted to "pay" him for his support, they gave the kinky pedophile what he desired: flesh in the form of children given to use for his perverted pleasure in any number of ports of call over the years. That those also probably became blackmail points was also predictable. The thought of it sickened Tony, but the man's death at least ended that list of casualties finally. However, he kept his mouth shut in present company about those possibilities.

He tossed brief but sharp look at Bishop to let her know they would talk later when they left McGee's. She simply nodded in return, perhaps thinking the same thing

"There's more," Ducky said. "I know you have less than cordial feelings for the man, Timothy, but it appears Admiral Porter listed you as the beneficiary of his Navy pension and several of his private financial accounts. Surely the disbursement of that will take time as there is an ongoing investigation, but Director Vance assured me you do not need to fear any of the suspicions about the man embroiling or implicating you in this mess any further. The money is clean as multiple investigations have determined. These are simply the well-invested and untapped funds of a man who had no need for the money he successfully squirreled away."

Abby blinked in surprise and noted her husband's furrowed brow. She knew the look. He was annoyed but not ready to complain out loud about whatever troubled him. The issue was not hard to determine. Over the years, even before they were a couple once again, she had heard a great deal about McGee's childhood. Dislike and distrust of Porter was well-known. The reasons were difficult for him to express beyond simply not liking the man and never being able to distance himself from the man fast enough. This final overture by the dead admiral to gain favor with McGee was odd but she did not understand the tense expressions on the face of their colleagues.

"Ducky, how do you know about the man's beneficiary?" she asked. "Did worrying about his stock portfolio trigger his fatal heart attack? Was he signing his will when he died?"

The medical examiner turned his eyes toward the forensic scientist and relaxed. She was blissfully unaware of what most of the team knew. From the lack of instant reviling about receiving anything from Porter, it appeared McGee also did not know the full extent of the man's wretchedness nor how close he himself had come to being one of the man's young victim's. That, Ducky hoped, would be a secret kept for all time.

"No," he shook his head. "I learned this from Captain Jackson, a friend of Admiral Porter's and I believe a friend of your father's, Timothy."

McGee nodded and explained his father and Jackson had attended Annapolis together and remained close friends as they climbed the ranks. Although John McGee climbed higher and faster, Jackson was probably the closest friend his father had in the Navy… in the world, too.

"Well, Captain Jackson conveyed that information to me today when he let me know he will be escorting the body to D.C.," Ducky explained. "He has papers for you as he is the executor of the Admiral's private will. I thought it best to pass along that information now so that it does not surprise you later this week."

McGee scrunched his brow in confusion. He could not fathom why Porter, who disliked intensely and never gave a moment of his time if he could spare it, would bequeath him anything. Ducky chimed in quickly to alleviate the mystery.

"I remarked my surprise at you being the sole beneficiary as well," he reported. "The Captain told me that your father was previously listed as Admiral Porter's beneficiary. He apparently felt indebted to your father for his own reasons, but when Admiral McGee passed on Admiral Porter simply transferred the bequest to you. I know how you prefer not to benefit from your father's name and accomplishments; however, in this instance I should think you would reconsider. Pride and integrity are wonderful attributes, but balance in life is vital. Keep in mind that Abigail is carrying two souls who will surely be in need of tuition money in 18 years. You may feel ill will towards Admiral Porter, but I see nothing wrong with helping children with the profits he accumulated."

Tony looked slyly at the aging doctor and remembered why he never played chess or poker against the man. Ducky was the epitome of a smooth operator when the mood and reason struck him just right. He was doing more than just giving the McMini's a healthy shot at not being in debt when they got out of college, but he was also casually showing Karma a way to cleanse an evil man's deeds without visiting the details on anyone else.

McGee half-shrugged and shook his head. He didn't much care for anything involving Porter. He wasn't sure precisely how the man had contributed to Carter's predicament other than he was somehow involved in the drug trade (which apparently didn't generate his riches) and probably was involved in the 30 year old murder in San Francisco. Either way, what to do with the man's money was an issue for another day. If he found he could not accept the money with good grace, he could always just donate it to any number of charities.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _FBI safe house—Harrisburg, VA_**

The dwelling was a one-story ranch structure in need of a coat of paint at the end of a dead end street surrounded by rental properties. All in all, Gibbs thought, it was a good choice for a safe house that might have a lot of comings and goings. The constant shifting of neighbors wouldn't raise any attention in those living around the dwelling as they were not permanent either.

Not that the living arrangement was of much interest to Gibbs. He'd spent the last few hours doing something he only did in his dreams: talk to his wife. And this time, he was awake.

Finding things to say was oddly difficult. It was not that words were getting stuck in his throat. It was that he did not know where to begin. The urge to question—and not interrogate—was strong but so much of him was no longer interested in the past that he found he could not form a cogent thought about the present. However, as happened so often in all their conversations in the past, it was Shannon who kept the discussion going.

She had wept uncontrollably on his shoulder for the first 20 minutes when he arrived at the house the FBI brought her to that afternoon. Gibbs hardly dared believe Fornell was right when he came to get him for the trip. He was glad they were taken by helicopter to a spot not far from James Madison University in the town then driven the short 10 minutes to the safe house rather than anguishing for two hours in a car to see someone he thought dead for 25 years. Besides, two hours in a car with Fornell driving was more than he could handle on a good day.

"I'm going to have bruises," Shannon said as she rubbed her arm. "I keep pinching myself because I'm certain that I'm dreaming."

Her eyes were no longer leaking profusely but they still dazzled with tears as she sat beside him on the lumpy sofa in the darkening evening. He gazed back at her feeling similarly but only smiling to show that.

"The only thing that tells me I'm not dreaming is that when I dream about you, you look younger," she continued as she gently stroked his cheek.

Gibbs smirked and nodded. He did the same thing about her, picturing her always the way she was when he last saw her. Now, having seen her again, those once treasured dreams seemed to pale in comparison. He'd take every stray graying hair, ever last little wrinkle times ten before he'd ever dream of her the way she was before because what he had now in front of him was one thousand time better as the woman he lost ever again: He now had the woman he found.

Correction, he told himself, the woman Tony found.

"You have nothing to say in return?" she remarked with a crooked smile.

"Thinking about it," Gibbs said as he continued to drink in her features.

She was there. She was real. She was… the same in so many ways, her smile, the way she fidgeted uncomfortably when she was nervous, the way she brushed her hair from her forehead. The years lost were crushing in their devastation, yet they seemed to fade with the setting sun as he found every minute spent since entering the dwelling and seeing her seemed to inject a soothing sensation into aches he had convinced himself for decades were actually numb.

Which is not to say there were not moments of anguish. Seeing her was astounding, but hearing her tell him what he already knew, that Kelly was dead, was devastating. For all the giddiness (yes, he was prepared to admit, at least to himself, that the swooping feelings in his chest were not indications of a heart attack but actual jump —a manly and bold jump worthy of a Marine—for joy giddiness) he felt, the old wound for his lost daughter ripped open again as though it had never healed. From Shannon's heartfelt tears, Gibbs knew she was experiencing a similar feeling. They had never done their grieving together. He wondered for the first time how they would have managed together if she had not been taken from her after Kelly died. He thrust that thought from his mind because to contemplate meant accepting the possibility that they would have willingly separated, too devastated by grief to go on as a couple.

Shannon pulled him from those dreary thoughts as she continued to marvel at seeing him again.

"I can't believe how much you haven't changed," she smiled running her fingers through his hair. "I mean, other than the gray. It suits you. Actually, having hair suits you. I think like this style better than your buzz cut."

"Nothing wrong with a buzz cut," he shook his head then looked pointedly away.

Even with decades of separation, Shannon knew that look. He was troubled and on the verge of a decision, one that pained him but that he felt needed to be made. Speaking Gibbs, she learned long ago, was more about nonverbal communication than words.

"I never said there was—I may have thought it, but I never said it," she chided. "Okay, out with it. What is it? You're making that face, the one that usually meant I wasn't going to like what you said next."

Gibbs scoffed and looked at her with a more thoughtful gaze. He knew most of the instances she was referencing—most usually involved a deployment or him volunteering for a duty that scared her. He was not a glory hound or an attention seeker. He did not strive for accolades or medals. He just knew in his gut when there were things he had to do, things that were hard and could have serious consequences, things that (if he didn't do them) would have even more serious repercussions. Despite a fear of those repercussions, he knew he had things to tell her—things he had done without her that she had a right to know. Elated and overjoyed he might be, but he owned her explanations about three other women.

"It's been a lot of years," he said. "We have a lot of catching up to do."

"And we have the time to do that now," she assured him. "But that's not why you're brooding. Just say whatever it is that's eating at you, Jethro."

He signed and smiled at her spot on perceptiveness—yet another thing about his beloved wife that had not changed. He swallowed and took a breath as a guilty look filled his blue eyes.

"I have some confessions to make," he said. "I'm also going to do something I don't usually do."

"Use power tools?" she quipped, hoping to drive the sad expression from his vibrant eyes. "Or did you give that up and join the new millennium as far as technology goes? You know, part of the reason I stayed in that town was because keeping the world away made it easier to face each day. I think I finally understood why you only used hand tools. I lived kind of a Spartan life in Green Bank and it does help calm the mind. But if you're going to tell me that you embraced the modern world, I won't hold it against you."

He smiled reflexively. He was an old dog that may have learned a few new tricks but that did not mean he had abandoned any of his old ones.

"Necessary evil of the job," he said fishing his phone from his pocket. "I work with an agent who lives and breathes this stuff. This is the most ancient but workable cellphone he can find."

"Well, the fact you even have one is an impressive leap in my mind," she revealed. "It also makes you savvier about the world than I am. I've never owned a cellphone. I don't own a computer. The closest I've ever gotten to one is the ones in the stores that I walk by. I don't even have a credit card or a bank card. I walk into the bank and withdraw my money using a paper slip processed by the teller still. Even in Green Bank, that's a little old school."

Gibbs nodded and smiled. Her small measures to keep her life simple and as far distances from the rest of the world were a grab at maintaining a fragile peace while in exile from her life and the reality of it. It had the vexing effect of also nearly perfectly cloaking her from ever being found. If not for Trent Kort's odd hints and Tony's itchiness not to be stuck at home doing nothing, she would never have been found. That thought pained Gibbs, but what he had to tell her was going to be more hurtful he suspected.

"My kind of life in many ways," he offered as he grasped her hand. "I need to apologize to you. I have a rule against that normally, apologizing, that is."

"I recall," Shannon replied wrinkling her nose."

"Well, a year ago, one of my agents—my computer genius—gave me his objection to that rule. I didn't fully buy his argument then, but now I get what he was saying. See, the rule used to be: Never apologize it's a sign of weakness. I guess now it needs to be: Never falsely apologize because that is the sign of weakness. So, I am sorry I never looked for you. I am sorry I didn't find you. I'm sorry I… tried to move on without you."

"You have nothing to apologize for, although your leap in polishing that arcane rule is impressive," she assured him as tears rose in her eyes again. "You had no reason to look for me. I admit I was tempted to go to your grave, what I thought would be your grave, but I couldn't. I couldn't face it. I still can't. I'm not sure what kind of mother it makes me, but I couldn't bear the thought of seeing Kelly's name on a headstone."

Gibbs embraced her and made soothing noses in his throat as she wept once more. He knew how she felt for he never visited the cemetery either for the same reasons. Seeing their names etched in granite was too painful.

"It makes you a grieving mother," he assured her in a husky voice.

He was not sure she was ready to hear about the changes and turns in his life since she left it. She knew he was now with NCIS and still lived in their family home, but the rest of his life was still a mystery as they spent the first hours together hearing about her life and how she had ended up living a lie just a few hours from her husband since the 1990s. It was a twisty and convoluted tale punctuated by a lot of tears and angry outbursts at the men who stole her life. Gibbs comforted her as the tale rolled out. All the while, his mind was churning on how he would explain his life to her. While not usually ashamed of his actions, he felt like an adulterer. He needed, at some point, to confess to her what he had done in his awkward efforts to move on when she was believed dead.

Delaying that was cowardly, he knew. As he hovered on the verge of telling her about his subsequent marriages—none of which now seemed legal as he was never actually a widower it—another of his rules popped into his mind. This one did not need adjusting.

It needed implementing. He held up his finger to seek a pause in their conversation as he pulled out his phone and tapped a brief message before taking a steadying breath to begin his apology.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _McGee and Abby's Home_**

As darkness fell and porchlights came to push back the shadows, Tony finished weaving his take on why Shannon was hidden. He believed it was simply out of a squeamishness on the part of a crooked DEA agent who was interested in atoning for his wrongdoing in an effort to boost his karma. The man saved a few drug dealers and then one of them nearly killed an innocent witness on his watch. Whatever the reason, the team was not sure they would ever find the answer if former Agent Johnson remained far away in territories that prevented extradition.

However, that did not end the mountain of questions the team was accumulating. Abby, however, got to the one no one had yet asked but all surely wondered about at the back of their minds but were too afraid to utter.

"If Shannon is alive, does that mean Kelly is too?" Abby asked with a hopeful light in her eyes.

Ducky sighed and shook his head in a remorseful fashion.

"Unfortunately, no," he replied. "Shannon apparently saw her daughter after the accident in the hospital. The severe injuries marked on the poor girl's chart certainly existed. Shannon suffered recoverable injuries, a bruised spleen, two broken ribs, a broken arm and a concussion but was able to ambulate out of the hospital with the assistance of Agent Johnson's cohorts. They hurried her out of the hospital and placed her into his privately created protective custody, funded in party by the Reynosa Cartel—the very group that was the seed of her disappearance. Our rogue DEA agent apparently could not kill her as the cartel requested; however, he also had to ensure she did not testify against Mr. Hernandez so it would appear the rouse about protective custody was created. I believe you are correct, Anthony. It appears Agent Johnson was looking to salvage some of his soul after seeing the lives he was destroying."

"But someone got buried," Abby began as she grew tense and gripped McGee's hand for comfort and support.

"Well, we know a coffin was buried, and it will need to be exhumed," Ducky said. "I believe there are some ramifications involved with doing that as there may still some active tentacles to the drug ring. As I understand it, Mr. Parsons is working with the FBI on how and when is best to disturb what was thought to be Shannon Gibbs' final resting place. From what she reported to Agent Fornell and Gibbs, there is no reason to believe that the body in the child's grave is not Kelly. I have been assured that, out of respect for Gibbs, I will be the one to open the coffin and autopsy whatever body, if any, is in there."

McGee shirked at the statement and looked between Tony and the medical examiner with confusion.

"I understand what you're saying, but I still don't understand how they pulled this off," McGee said. "I know Gibbs was reeling from the shock of the news that his family was killed, but he would have noticed if there was no body in his wife's coffin. He also would have known if the body in there wasn't his wife. I don't understand how he made the mistake of not knowing the woman he buried wasn't Shannon."

Ducky nodded in agreement. He sighed knowingly.

"A question I asked this afternoon as well and received a most credible answer," Ducky revealed. "It seems that getting Gibbs stateside after the accident to attend the funerals apparently was not a quick or easy process. He was in the middle of a warzone so delivering the news did not happen promptly. Then there was the matter of transporting him home. It is not precisely and easy feat even today, but this was in the 1990s so there were even more arduous logistical concerns at hand. For that reason, Gibbs did not arrive in the U.S. until the actual morning of the funeral. The coffins were already sealed upon his arrival, and despite his request to open them he was denied. He was told by the funeral director that they could not be opened and that it was best that he remembered Shannon and Kelly as they were when he saw them last for the injuries inflicted on them rendered them unrecognizable. Apparently, his mother-in-law also encouraged him to accept that ruling as she had. The obituaries published at the time state they were closed casket wakes. No one who knew Shannon or Kelly saw their bodies. That alone helps me understand his drastic and painful lack of closure for Jethro.

"From what I learned earlier, Shannon did see Kelly in the hospital briefly but was not given the opportunity to be with her with the child actually died," Ducky continued miserably. "The poor woman was taken from her daughter in the child's last hours. While in unofficial exile from her life, Shannon was then told that Gibbs died in Operation Desert Storm. As you know, he was injured not long after returning to the Persian Gulf. Agent Johnson capitalized on that opportunity and those records. He doctored them a bit and presented them to Shannon to ensure she would fully severe her ties to her old life. She believed all of her family, except her parents, were dead. In her grief, she retreated from the world. To help her do that, Agent Johnson placed her in what amounts to one of the most remote places in the United States."

Each of the group nodded. The National Radio Quiet Zone was like being on the moon when it came to communication to the outside world in this day and age of instant communication via the airwaves. No cellphones, no radio, limited internet delivered by cables. Those who live there could be cut off from everything if they want to be.

"I just can't believe we were there, Fornell and his team and me, a year ago just a few miles from where you found her, Tony," McGee shook his head. "Fornell and I actually were in Green Bank. We drove right by her house—I even know which one it was by your description. She was right there the whole time. Unbelievable."

Tony shook his head. McGee was stunned by the news almost as much as he was by the realization that Tony's hands-on approach rather than McGee's computer-based analytical one was what unearthed the day's shocking news. Leg work versus logical—the eternal struggle in law enforcement were also the leading differences between the two investigators.

"Don't sweat it, Probie," Tony said. "A thousand IRS and OIG auditors never figured out Johnson had a slush fund to hide people. The marshal service never figured out he used their Wit Sec resources to get her a new identity. Hell, Mike Franks never even had clue about this. If that doesn't make anyone feel pretty good about not figuring this mess out, nothing will."

McGee nodded slowly, but Tony could tell it was not because he agreed the information was impossible to discover. It looked more to the senior agent that McGee was simply accepting that he missed something he should have found when pulling apart the data in the laptop he pirated a few miles from where Shannon was found.

"Shannon herself never ventured out of her seclusion to give anyone a reason to suspect she was alive," Ducky added. "She retreated into a quiet world of books, her rose garden, and her memories. She was sustained by the annuity Johnson set up for her, and she assumed the identity of Sharon Walker, a reclusive Marine widow, wholeheartedly if sadly."

Abby sighed then sniffled as she nestled closer to McGee. She rested her head on his shoulder as she sought more information from Ducky how Gibbs was taking this twist in his life.

"All those years she and Gibbs lost when they could have had each other," Abby sniffled. "Now, they've found each other again. Gibbs must be so happy and yet so confused. How is he?"

"I really can't say," the doctor revealed. "I haven't spoken with him much. Only Agent Fornell was present for the actual reunion of Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs. I can imagine it was an emotional one that Jethro would prefer was kept private."

McGee nodded and sighed.

"If you think about it, they're basically strangers," he offered. "They haven't seen or spoken to each other in 25 years. That's a lifetime."

"What?" Abby asked twisting instantly to look at him with wide and disbelieving eyes. "What do you mean they don't know each other? Tim, they were in love. They were married. They had a child. Simple absence doesn't change any of that."

Tony smirked, thinking that McGee of all people should have known that distance didn't always make the heart grow colder, but kept his mouth shut to avoid stoking any squabbles. He could see the dark circles under Abby's eyes—the ones that surely had McGee losing sleep worrying about her as well. Tony understood now why McGee was adamant about keeping the discussion and revelations as low key as possible for her. The final leg of her pregnancy seemed to be wearing on her greatly. Although this was a day of essentially good news, it was also shocking at the same time.

For his part, McGee sighed and did not argue Abby's point. First off, he believe she was right in some respects. Next, her moods could swing rather swiftly normally. He was used to it after so many years. What bothered him lately was that those swings now came with tears. They were hormonally based and beyond her control, but that did not stop it from bothering him. Tears in his wife's eyes always made McGee feel terrible, even when she assured him they weren't his fault.

"I just meant that they've both lived a quarter of a century without the other," McGee explained. "They've changed, settled into new…. different lives. Abby, 25 years is longer than they knew each other before the accident. Think about it, he's known you and Ducky longer than he was married to Shannon. That's got to be hard to accept."

"Married!" she gasped, making McGee jump and worry she was having a contraction. "Oh my god! Gibbs got remarried."

"Several times," Tony nodded then winced as Abby glared in his direction.

Ducky grinned at the reaction but offered pacifying words.

"Yes, I imagine that is one of the many things they have to talk about," he said. "While I would be fond of a happy ending as much as anyone, alas I am in agreement with Timothy that there appear to be some obstacles to navigate first. The odds that the initial elation over their reunion being enough to revive their long-lost love are long and against them. I speak from experience when I say that often times our memories of those we loved and how strong our love was end up being more powerful in memory than they are in reality."

Abby shook her head defiantly.

"Gibbs remarried each time because he was trying to get over Shannon, but each time he married someone who somehow reminded him of some part of her," she insisted. "When you love someone like that, even time can't change how you feel. That's true love."

McGee smirked as he shook his head, earning him a stern and scrunched gaze from his wife.

"I'm not disagreeing with you… exactly," he said. "It's just that I don't think of you as having those kind of romantic illusions. You like spontaneity and concept of romance itself, but you're a scientist, Abby. Facts and reality are your default setting. Overly naïve hopes and aspirations are not your normal MO."

She frowned then leaned more closely into his shoulder.

"I am being factual," she insisted. "I know Gibbs. He never stopped loving Shannon and never will. Considering who Gibbs is, the evidence points to Shannon also being someone with those same kind of feelings and devotion. They may have grown older, but they're still the same people they were deep inside. You'll see. They've miraculously found each other again. They can't just to walk away from each other now. I'm certain of it the same way that I know if you and I were separated for more than 20 years I'd still feel the same about you. Wouldn't you feel that way about me?"

In the deepening darkness, McGee felt all eyes on the porch pointed at him as his mouth hung open as he was unable to instantly reply. Ducky smiled and jangled his keys as he prepared to leave.

"Abby, let me answer that as I bid you my farewell," the medical examiner said. "After observing the two of you for more than a dozen years, I can say with great certainty that Romeo and Juliet you are not; however, that does not make you any less star-crossed lovers who appeared destined to find each other eventually. I suspect that would take miraculous forces to keep you apart. And on that resounding note, I shall take my leave for the evening. A word of advice for all of you: I understand your worries about Gibbs; however, there have been enough upheavals today to merit a good long rest for all of us—you especially, Abigail. Do try to get some rest, my dear. Although Tony's discovery today is wonderful news, it is shocking all the same. Out of all of us, you need to be exceptionally mindful of over-excitement at the moment. Remember, your own family needs your attention more than anyone else's right now."

McGee quietly mouthed the words 'thank you' to Ducky over Abby's shoulder. She nodded her agreement, but the squint to her eyes told of continuing worries and hopes for their leader. Tony and Bishop took a cue from Ducky and also rose to leave. Tony's stated plan to all of them was to call Vance the next day and seek a waiver to return to duty, even if it was desk duty, in anticipation of Gibbs being unavailable for an indeterminate period of time. Whether he would be gone for days or weeks was yet another unknown and obstacle for the team to tackle. With McGee's head more on Abby and when he would be taking paternity leave that left the team without a leader or an experienced investigator.

"Ellie, get my chariot started so you can usher me home," Tony said grandly. "As for you, McGoo, take tomorrow off, but be in bright and early the next day."

"Tomorrow is Sunday," McGee reminded him.

"Which makes what I said wrong how?" the older agent asked then grinned. "Come on. We need some levity, and that's one of my many jobs. I'll be taking on other tasks soon, too, I suspect."

"How long do you think will Gibbs be gone?" Abby asked.

Tony offered an uncertain expression as Ducky's phone chirped. He briefly looked at the screen. He read the words then smiled and sighed remorsefully. He had expected this information. He had in fact hoped for it, but he also dreaded it in some ways. _Bittersweet_ , the doctor told himself.

"I believe I have that answer," Ducky replied as he replaced his phone. "That was from Jethro."

"Let me guess," Tony said. "He said he's fine, and get back to work."

Ducky smiled.

"In his own way," the doctor nodded. "It simply says: Tell the team Rule 11."

"Rule 11?" Abby repeated then looked with the hints of worry to McGee and Tony.

Both men looked at each other then nodded sadly but without surprise.

"When the job is done, walk away," Tony quoted hollowly.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _NCIS Squad Room_**

Monday arrived with edgy feelings among the team but no obvious chatter in the office other than a pervasive wondering where Gibbs was. Vance dispelled that with word that he was working with an FBI taskforce and would be checking in with him and him alone for a while. In that vein, he also stated Tony was returning to work although he would not be going into the field. He would run the show from his desk until he was cleared for full duty.

McGee and Bishop accepted the information without giving any hints to others that there was more to the story. For McGee, it was a bit like going back in time. Tony had been his boss once before and things had gone well over all. Sure, there were moments of overbearing Tony-ness that were hard to swallow, but McGee suspected there would be less of that now. Tony had matured and grown a new level of confidence in McGee, who had also grown as an agent in the interim. There was also the issue of Bishop still be a bit green to the job. She had slightly more investigative experience than Ziva did when Tony first took over the team, but Ziva's worldly experience was a level of sophistication that Bishop simply did not and could never have.

Which, in McGee's mind, was a good thing. He adored Ziva and considered her family, but Bishop was more apt to do things by the book and at that moment, stability and predictability were two things the team needed. However, just thinking of those days raised few questions for McGee. When it appeared there was no one else in the room, he sauntered over to Tony's desk.

"Vance give you any indication for when Gibbs might be back?" he asked quietly.

"Sick of me already?" Tony asked.

"You know what I mean," McGee said sternly.

Tony sighed. It felt different being in charge this time. While the last time it appeared that he was going to be the boss permanently, it never felt like Gibbs' departure was forever. This time, their hopes were for him to return eventually, but there was a feeling of finality in the air.

"No clue," he said. "It's possible that… you know."

"He's not coming back," McGee nodded, accepting the possibility as he had considered it likely. "Are you ready to do this? I don't mean can you do this, because I know you can, but is this what you want? I know you can lead a team, but you and I talked about this once. You said it might be better for you to take on a team that wasn't this one. Do you still feel that way?"

McGee's questions were two-fold. First, he was interested in where Tony's head was at. He was not a bad leader but the familiarity on the team could work against him. McGee respected Tony as his senior and could be his subordinate without difficulty, but adding the direct and official supervision piece to the equation could mar their friendship, and that worried him. Next, if Tony was considering moving on now that his mentor might be retiring for real, that would mean McGee had to get used to an entirely new command philosophy with a new lead agent. Considering the upheavals in his world in the last year, he was not sure if he was ready for that.

"I think if I'm going to lead a team, I'd want it to be the best one in the agency," Tony said.

McGee huffed at the non-answer answer but took his cue from that. No changes were on Tony's horizon.

"Vance offered me a post in cyber," McGee revealed. "I got the email when I came in today. The position will be in January—section chief level."

Tony blinked and blanched. That was a two level jump into second line management—a sizeable pay bump and complete office work. For someone about to usher into the world two little drains on pocket money who needed insurance he would come home in perfect health every night, the offer was like hitting the jackpot.

"What did you tell him?" Tony asked.

"Nothing," McGee said. "I haven't decided. The job isn't exactly open yet but he wanted to put it on my radar so I can think about it. The real offer will be in December."

Tony nodded. He smirked as he looked at his keyboard. Vance was sly. He dropped that offer on McGee nearly the second Gibbs left. Tony suspected the offer would have come even if Gibbs was still with them, but the suddenness of it was to capitalize on a moment of uncertainty. Vance certainly wanted to leave his fingerprints on NCIS and he had been pushing subtly for a long time to move McGee out of investigations and into cyber.

"Well, think about it," Tony shrugged. "You'll know what to do when the time comes."

McGee nodded, feeling better now that that was off his chest. Despite Tony's accusations in the past, he did not like keeping secrets from his friends and coworkers. Some were necessary; all were difficult.

"Did you tell Ziva?" McGee asked in a further hushed voice.

"We're under orders not to talk about any of this and you think I told Ziva?" Tony responded.

"So what did she say?" McGee countered, wise to Tony's deflection and the rigidness of his posture that was as good as a confession.

"She's floored just like we are," Tony muttered. "Her dosier on Gibbs from all those years ago never turned up that Shannon was alive. She was as stunned to find out the woman is alive as she was to learn that Mossad missed something. Not sure which rocked her world more. Might be the Mossad thing. Hard to say with her sometimes."

McGee nodded as he looked up at the chime of the elevator to see an unexpected entourage enter.

"Vance tell you any updates on the case?" McGee asked as Tony continued to busy himself with email.

"If he had, I would tell you," he replied. "Why?"

"Because the FBI and OIG is here and they look mad," McGee said turning Tony's head to see Fornell and Parson's traipsing by wearing stern and grave expressions.

Tony stood to watch the duo head up the stairs. Fornell caught his eye then deftly pointed one of his fingers downward, sending Tony back into his seat like dog taking a command.

"I think it's safe to say something is up," Tony said. "Find Ellie. Campfire in 10."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Vance's Office_**

The Federal prosecutor and FBI supervisory agent gave Vance his brief on the latest in their ever sprawling case. It had become something of a hydra in the last few months, but they felt they now has more heads lopped off than would be springing up again. The latest news was both good and bad. Their fugitive, former DEA Agent Johnson, was no longer missing. He was also no long alive. He was found dead in a hotel room in Venezuela two days earlier. His identify had just been confirmed. It was good to know that he was no longer around to work with the cartel; however, it also meant that like Porter he would not be put on trial and convicted for his nefarious deeds.

One bright spot was the capture of his nephew, the possible mastermind behind the planned shooting of Agent McGee. Peter Colson was arrested trying to pass through Heathrow Airport the previous evening. Interpol nabbed him and turned him over to MI-6 for questioning involving a gun running operation. The US was assured they would get first crack at him once the Brits were done with him. However, considering the magnitude of the British interest in the man's gun running operation, that was probably going to take a very long while. Unconfirmed reports had Colson being bundled onto a plane to receive his interrogation far from the British Isles. Vance nodded, understanding that as code and confirmation that the UK also had black sites where the rules of the realm were suspected.

Fornell also reported that all indications were that Shannon Gibbs was of no interest whatsoever to the cartel. It appeared that only Johnson knew of her existence. His death seemed to remove the need to shroud her from the rest of the world. However, in the interest of abundant caution, she and Gibbs would be kept out of the daylight for the time being. Besides, Fornell said, they had a lot to work through with a quarter of a century of living without each other to discuss and process.

"Your roll up makes it sound like you have all of this in hand," Vance said warily. "You could have conveyed this in a teleconference. Since you're here, I'm guessing there's more. Is this about Porter and his will?"

"No," Parsons said. "We can't link his money to the drugs or any criminal activity. It seems that the guy was just smart at investing and lived a moderate lifestyle. If Agent McGee wants to be relieved of the burden of the inheritance, I have a bank account that is willing to accept the burden."

Vance snorted but took the statement on its face. There would be no more discussion or investigation into Porter. For as dirty as the man was in other ways, he was monetarily clean. Vance was making calls to try and prevent his burial in Arlington but that was a political morass that would take another few days to sort out. It was a small gesture, one nearly no one in the Navy would understand, but it mattered to Vance.

"Okay, then," the director said with a shrug. "You obviously want something I've got. What is it?"

Fornell eyed Parson's coolly then sighed. He grimaced as he spoke.

"We need your help," he said. "We've got two last pieces of this cartel to wrangle. The FBI has lead on nabbing them, but you've got what we need to lure them. I need an asset, Director, for an undercover sting."

Vance nodded. He had a lot of assets. He had access to oodles of information. He had access to lots of technology, too. But so did the FBI. Whatever it was Fornell was seeking, it was individual to NCIS—which meant just one thing: people.

"Who do you want, why do you want them, and how long will you be seeking them?" he asked boldly. "That's not an agreement to give you anything. I need to know scope of whatever it you are planning before I'll agree to anything."

Parsons nodded. He was a negotiator as well. Vance had the smallest of all the armed Federal law enforcement agencies and it had taken a hit in the last few years. Currently, his leading team was absent a leader, was down a senior agent and was just getting back it's next senior member, whose head was rumored to be more on family issues than the office lately.

"We've confirmed what Gibbs discovered in Florida," Fornell explained. "Paolo, the man mentioned by Porter at the end of his interrogation, is Vincent Paolo, which is a pseudonym for Darren Grayson."

"Grayson?" Vance repeated. "As in the former Navy Commander and rogue MIT graduate who DHS blamed for the cyber security breach at OPM and the Pentagon last year?"

Fornell winced at the information that was relayed belatedly to NCIS. When it was initially revealed to him a week earlier, it had become apparent to the FBI agent that DHS had known about the man's dual identities not long after the blown sting operation they attempted the previous July that set part of this plan into motion.

"One in the same," Parsons nodded. "It seems being the brainiest guy in his class at MIT wasn't enough. It certainly didn't make him the kind of money he wanted so he went into business working for organized crime and eventually got hooked up with Rojas's scheme. He manipulated Rojas into letting him into the inner sanctum and when the opportunity presented itself, Paolo had him disposed of then took over. As the man known to be Rojas's brains in the operation, the transition was seamless."

Vance nodded. He could see where this requests for assets was going. On the surface, it seemed like a good idea, but without Gibbs around to troubleshoot and play devil's advocate, Vance was wary. The fact that his agents were people rather than just numbers on a spreadsheet was always near the front of his mind, but being at the time did not always afford him the ability to think of them as individuals. He relied on his team leaders to keep him grounded about such things.

"And you need someone to get close to Paolo so he can implicate himself in something," Vance guessed.

"Just enough to get us probable cause for an arrest," Parsons said. "Once we have him, we'll work the 72 hour detainment window for all its worth before officially arresting him. We'll do it on a Friday so the closed courts work in our advantage. Then we'll charge him with everything we've got. Your people will be back to you after the raid. Agent Fornell's team will be in charge of the arrest and the rest of the investigation."

"And why aren't we using Agent Fornell's team as the bait?" Vance asked. "That's what I'm hearing from you gentlemen. You need something to lure Paolo out and get him to trip over his tongue. What is it I have that you can fabricate from a fake alias for your own undercover operatives?"

Fornell bowed his head in apology then met the sharp eye of the director.

"An alias, and the agent it belongs to, who we created a year ago who already met with Paolo," Fornell revealed. "Tom Miller works for you, Director."

Vance glared back with hot intensity as the muscles in his jaw bunched.

"You want McGee?" he asked flatly. "I thought the alias of Tom Miller was considered burned when you all blew your arrest of Paolo the last time, before you knew who he really was."

Fornell squirmed in his seat. He did not like confessing to anyone the dirty laundry of the FBI. All Federal agencies had their secrets and shady deals; they all lied to and shafted their brethren from time to time—it was a large dysfunctional family after all. Talking about it, however, was never enjoyable.

"We put word out that Miller escaped with Pennybaker—which was true—and that he only barely got away and spent the rest of the year in Chile recovering from injuries sustained from an attack by the husband of one of his lovers," Fornell said. "We'd spent a long time creating Tom Miller and backstopping the ID. My director didn't think it wise to let the go so easily. We filed Miller away for use, if only in casual mentions, at a later time. Well, now it's later. Unfortunately, the guy who we need to use Miller on is unfortunately someone who met Tom Miller a year ago. The odds against this happening were colossal but…"

Vance grunted.

"Yes, but," he nodded in a perturbed way. "I need more information than this. You lay out the whole thing for me and I'll think about it. And for the record, you won't go over my head this time and get DHS to put pressure on this office to give you my agent. If I decide this plan is wise and if I decide to allow you to make the offer to Agent McGee, I can guarantee you that he will have the full support of this office and the Secretary of the Navy to say refuse if he chooses. I'll go higher than the Secretary if I must, gentleman, so give me every detail now, or I pick up that phone and make a call that eventually rings at the Naval Observatory and gets answered by someone who goes by the title Mr. Vice President."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _MTAC_**

The techs normally in the room were asked to step outside so that Vance could hold a private meeting the high tech nerve center of the agency. The Director waited in front of the big screen for the two agents invited to his briefing. It had been three days since Fornell and Parsons made their request. Two since Vance discussed it with Sec Nav and just an hour since he decided he was onboard if his personnel felt they could participate.

And that question was the whole focus of this meeting. So far, only one of the necessary parties had appeared. A brief glance at his watch told Vance that arrival number one was actually a few minutes early. As he had arrived without his partner in tow, Vance decided that was a strategic move to allow them a few minutes to talk out of earshot.

"Is having this meeting in MTAC supposed to make him feel safer and confident or are we just hiding out?" Tony asked as he looked pointedly at Vance.

He, admittedly, did not have the same cordial and controlled relationship with the Director that Gibbs did. He didn't even have the same computer gibberish connection to the man that McGee had. What Tony had was years of experience and a charge in front of him: do the job and take care of his team. It's what Gibbs would want him to do.

"We're still keeping this under wraps," Vance replied. "Are you here to support or object?"

"I'm here to listen," Tony said cagily. "We've got some bad guys to take down. I've had some experience with that. You want to use a member of my team. I am all ears to hear this plan."

His tone was playful but his words had an edge. Vance stared flatly back, not ready to begin a cat/mouse tango with Tony so early into the agent's tenure as a team leader under Vance. However, the Director would give him points for the moxie it took to start an in-your-face style of play so soon after returning to work in his new capacity.

"Then let's start with this bit of information," Vance said. "This is my agency. Agent McGee is on your name, but you all work for me. I'll use whatever resources I deem necessary. I will let you hear the details of this plan and I will listen to any relevant objections you have, but the decision on whether NCIS participates resides with me, DiNozzo. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," he nodded in return without even a hint of contrition.

Vance snorted while keeping his opinion that Tony spent too much time around Gibbs to himself. His silence was wise because at that moment, the door to the shadowy room opened and McGee entered looking cautious. His eyes swiveled between Vance and Tony but he said nothing.

"Let's get started," Vance said without preamble. "Sixteen months ago, Agent Burley stumbled on what appeared to be a security breech in the routine software checks that monitored the activities of civilian defense contractors at a base in Afghanistan. NCIS's involvement in that inquiry has since ballooned into the discovery and dismantling of the largest-scale drug operation in US history. While the FBI, DEA, and a few others are taking most of the headlines, we were in the ring first and we landed the most decisive punches. The match is almost over. Only one big contender left. The FBI wants to knock him out, and they need our help."

The picture of Paolo flashed on the screen behind him. Tony merely nodded but McGee sat up straighter in his seat. He recognized the face and it showed.

"We have recently learned that this man, Vincent Paolo, is also the man who created the malicious code that compromised about a million identities of government employees last year and that triggered the DHS sting operation last summer in West Virginia," Vance said then nodded at McGee. "You played an impromptu and crucial role in that operation, Agent McGee."

As he spoke, he clicked the remote in his hand and raised up the picture of McGee from the surveillance video DHS shot of the meeting the prior year. Tony scoffed and smirked at the sight of his teammate dressed as a mercenary but on closer inspection, he fell silent. He had forgotten how deathly wan and hallow McGee was when he first returned. The sunken aspect of his eyes gave him the look of wanted man. Tony looked to his left where McGee sat and compared the two men. One was cagey and held many secrets; the other was fretful and preferred answers to questions. The man on the screen looked like he was on the run for his life and didn't much care what happened next. The one on Tony's left kept a close eye on life at home from his iPhone and counted the hours until he could go home to spend time with his wife.

"The FBI is setting up a meet and greet with Paolo through a variety of back channels," Vance revealed. "The gist of the meeting is to offer him a new operation for distribution of his product. He's lost his shipping company now that we are cauterizing every vein and capillary his operation grew into the Navy and the Marine Corps. He'll have been struggling for several weeks to find something equally as global and convenient. We're going to offer him the solution he is looking for and get him to say the right things so the FBI can arrest him for drug trafficking. We want him for a lot more than that, but we'll take what we can get for now."

McGee nodded, not seeing where NCIS fit into the plan. If the FBI was conducting the sting, they would be supplying the intel and the watchers to ensnare Paolo. He figured the only reason he was in the room was because they were going to need him to look at some additional code Paolo/Grayson had written that interested but stumped the FBI. Why Tony was there was yet another mystery. McGee waited for the explanation.

When it came, it wasn't from Vance. It was Tony who scoffed and looked at him with a pitying expression that let McGee know he had missed something obvious in the exposition.

"The FBI can only find one believable bad guy in the repertoire who will have the clout and pedigree of scumbaggery that has enough credibility to lure Paolo to come to the meeting," Tony said. "Tom Miller."

McGee smirked, thinking it an odd time and audience for Tony to make a joke like that, but as no one in the room corrected the senior agent, McGee felt the blood drain from his face.

"You're serious?" he asked.

"Big time," Tony nodded.

"Tom Miller, as in…,"McGee began and pointed at his picture on the screen. "That guy? He nearly got Paolo arrested last year. How do you know he won't show up to the meeting just to kill Tom Miller as payback?"

"We don't," Vance answered firmly. "This is a risky operation—riskier than when you stole that man's secrets out from under his nose without him realizing it."

"And we're sure he doesn't realize what I did when I pretended I didn't know how to run a laptop?" McGee asked.

"No, we're not," Vance replied. "We are going on some large assumptions, but so far the situation seems to favor our slant on it. It took weeks to crack his coding. This guy is so arrogant he doesn't believe anyone can do what he can do, but he's also running the whole show now. Chances are, since we were able to get the drop on a lot of his operation, that he didn't know where he was made vulnerable. For all he knows, Miller is making him the offer just to kill him on sight. We're hoping it gives the whole meeting a détente aura."

McGee huffed. There was a lot of hope being tossed around for what should have been a more factual discussion. He could not help but think that this would not be happening, at least not in this fashion, if Gibbs was around.

But that was not the case and he told himself it was time to start getting used to the idea of life without Gibbs there to have his teams' back. While McGee did not think Vance would willfully and unnecessarily endanger his agents, it was Gibbs who thought strategically about field operations. Plus, there was the added comfort of knowing you had a decorated Marine sniper watching your back when he was around.

"The FBI is setting all this up?" McGee asked feeling a head rush the likes of which he had not felt since he was first released from the hospital after being shot.

"Joint operation with them taking the lead on all areas but with us in a vital support role," Vance assured him. "Agent Fornell has full command of this operation. I made that a condition of our participation—if we participate. Whether this is a go or a no-go is up to you, Tim. I want to get this man and put him out of business, but we can find other ways. This is just the most convenient in the FBI's view."

Tony watched the wheels in his partner's head begin spinning. The trick was got keep them from smoking and igniting so that he had a cerebral meltdown.

"Or there's another option," Tony said. "We send me in as Tom Miller's right hand. If the guy needs to know I'm Miller's lieutenant, we can FaceTime McGee into the discussion. A few seconds of hi, how are ya, I've got other stuff to do, and McGee stays in the van to monitor and feed me details in an earwig if I need them. I do the wheeling and dealing; I get him to say the magic words and Fornell's busy bees swarm in with handcuffs. Wham. Bam. We all get home in time to watch Colbert on the Late Show."

Vance frowned but did not instantly dismiss the suggestion. It was not his to agree to, but he could suggest it. However, his interest and focus was on the agent at the center of the FBI's plan in that moment.

"It won't work," McGee said. "Paolo is the head of his organization. He's only going to talk to the man in charge of the solution being offered. A quick chat over FaceTime won't do. It has to be face to face. It'll have to be on ground of his choosing. It'll be a place he thinks he can control."

"We demand a public spot," Tony nodded. "No more over hill and dale fields in the middle of nowhere. They had a chopper at their disposal last time and this guy still got away."

"They're guaranteeing every precaution possible will be in place," Vance offered. "We don't have any specifics yet because they need to worm the offer to him and see if he bites. If he does, we'll probably only have a 24 hour window to prepare. Fornell will be sending over an updated dosier on Miller for you to learn. They'll begin drafting a cover for you and anyone else we bring to the party."

McGee had nodded scantly until the last phrase which prompted a curt shake his of his head.

"Not Bishop," he said and felt their heavy stares on him. "She's not the type Miller would keep around. I'm not saying we don't involve her, but she shouldn't be there as his secretary or girlfriend or whatever."

Vance nodded his agreement. Bishop was gaining proficiency in investigations and had done some limited undercover work, but she was not ready for an operation of this magnitude with so little warning and experience. Even McGee was something of a novice for it, but as he dove into the deep end of this pool once before and made it out without drowning Vance considered him as certified as he could get for this.

"We'll put together are request list and let the FBI deal respond," the Director said. "We're looking at a rapid turnaround if they can make this happen so be ready. DiNozzo, if you're going to be involved, you need to get cleared medically. I'll waive the timelines if medical says you pass. Agent McGee, I don't have to tell you that this is going to fall heavily on your shoulders. I know you've got a lot on your mind lately and the timing of this probably couldn't be worse, but private and professional lives spill into each other from time to time. You know what to do here."

McGee nodded dejectedly. He didn't relish the idea of lying to Abby and keeping secrets from her, especially now. Health-wise, she and the babies were doing well. She had twice monthly check ups and so far there were no additional concerns on her doctor's radar, but stress was still to be avoided. McGee knew he would need to work extra hard to keep his thoughts and worries hidden so she did not grown suspicious and worried.

"I won't tell Abby a thing," he shook his head. "She's still a bit upset to find out that Curly was a mole. It's probably best if I just make it a point not to talk about the office at all around her for now."

"Wrong," Vance shook his head. "Tell her—maybe not the precise details, but let her know we're working with the FBI on a sting and that you'll be involved at some point. I know you're worried about her health but you're not going to be able to hide this from her. If you get a call in the middle of the night saying the meeting is a go, you don't have time to placate her or assuage her fears. She knows enough about the drug cartel as it is. Let her know upfront that you're just waiting for the call so you can join your team."

McGee nodded slowly. While that would take some pressure off him, he wasn't sure it would do anything to calm Abby's fears. He suspected Vance's concern was more for his agent's readiness and state of mind, but McGee knew it would be easier to jump into an undercover assignment if Abby at least knew it would happen at some point. It would then make it easier for McGee to do the job than if he got the call and left with worries that he abandoned his wife while she pleaded for information and worked herself into premature labor once more.

Tony could see the tension in McGee's shoulders and the concern on his face. The guy was in a terrible position. He had to choose between his family and justice. McDudleyDoRight never had to face that kind of conundrum before.

"She'll be fine," Tony assured him. "I'll help you explain it to her if you want. Abby worries too much about all of us, but if we tag team this and spin it just right, she'll see it's just a slightly more stressful day at the office but nothing we haven't done before."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** The end is so very near now….


	56. Chapter 56

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _NCIS Evidence Garage_**

Halloween arrived.

It was the night NCIS had learned to dread the same way all law enforcement cringed as the night of pranks, mayhem and some of the strangest cases any of them ever saw rolled around. Making the team even more on edge this year was the evening's plan. Word came down from Vance 24 hours before the holiday that the meeting with Paolo was a go for All Hallows Eve.

Breaking the news to Abby was difficult for McGee.

First off, she had begun having contractions three days earlier. They were not the kind that sent them rushing to the hospital—at least not after she called her doctor and went to the office for a checkup. These, Dr. Shinseki explained, were normal as she neared her delivery date. That, McGee was quick to point out, was still 3 weeks away. The doctor had smiled calmly at his objection and again explained that due dates (particularly involving twins) was less of a science and more of an art.

McGee was not a fan of art.

However, after a few days of getting used to Abby cringing once or twice per hour, he was ready to accept that the doctor was correct and there was no need to race off to the hospital. Abby took the changes in stride. They were at the 37 week mark—her unofficial goal since going into preterm labor in July. Certainly, reaching the 3rd week of November was optimum, but at least at 37 weeks the twins would be essentially full-term and face fewer complications than if they had arrived much earlier.

On the morning of October 30th, when he got the call that he would be playing the role of Tom Miller the following evening, the guilt and worry nearly crushed him. It had been 4 weeks since they had any concrete update from the FBI on whether their plans to setup a meeting with Vincent Paolo would come to fruition. When it did, everything shifted into high gear, and he finally broke the news to Abby.

"How is Abby?" Bishop asked as she gathered the gear she would need for her part in their operation that evening.

"At lunchtime, she said she was fine," McGee said. "Well, Carter said she was fine. She couldn't come to the phone. There was ice cream melting and calling her name to save it—or something like that. She agreed I'm not supposed to think about anything but work today. I have orders that tomorrow morning, I can go overboard with worrying but not beforehand."

"Carter?" Bishop asked skeptically. "Your friend Carter? Abby's at your grandmother's house today?"

McGee sighed and shook his head. He may have assured his wife that their work that evening was basically a walk in the park. He may have told her he was not worried about the operations and could comfortably leave any impending fatherhood worries behind for the day.

He may have lied about both things.

"I thought it was time that they met," McGee said trying and failing to sound casual. "I've told them both all about the other, and they wanted to meet so I thought today was as good as any. Carter dropped by this morning before I came to work. When I called around noon, they were apparently having a great time swapping stories about me that will do my ego no good when I see both of them tonight. He agreed to stay with her this evening until I get home. My mom and Penny are supposed to join them for dinner."

Bishop nodded slowly. Her partner did a reasonably good job of focusing on work most days as long as he was busy. Tony had, thankfully, taken on the mantel of team leader like he was born to it. He and McGee swiftly fell into a professional rhythm that gave few hints at the history of juvenile antics and reactions they normally had to with each other, giving rise to Bishop's belief that more than half of their behavior normally was simply competitiveness in trying to please Gibbs. With Gibbs not in the picture, it was almost like working with two lifelong professionals for her.

"You're going to be out of touch for the evening so you got a Navy SEAL to watch over and protect your pregnant wife while your mother and grandmother take care of her," Bishop nodded. "Very subtle."

"Since her doctor told us two days ago they won't admit her until the contractions are less than 20 minutes apart or her water breaks, it seemed like the best option," McGee replied as though the logic was sound. "My only other idea was to get Abby to sit vigil in her lab with Ducky monitoring her every 10 minutes. At least this way, she at least can be at home on the couch."

Bishop nodded slowly and bit her lip to keep from chuckling or questioning him further. So much of the evening's success depended on McGee keeping his thoughts agile and calm as much as possible. She had done undercover with him in brief stints before and he was normally fairly adept at both, but this was different. These men were the pinnacle of a drug ring that attempted to kill McGee a year earlier. This was an operation that had very little spin up time and most of the pressure was on McGee's shoulders. There was also the issue of his wife being on the threshold of delivering their children. That he could even remotely present a focused and balanced façade was something of a miracle in her eyes.

"That's… good thinking," Bishop said then hurried to bring her bag to the van.

Preparation behind the scenes was in full gear as the FBI arrived with the technology and the wardrobe requirements for the evening. McGee ensconced himself in a far corner of the evidence garage with the FBI's tech to get the frequencies of all the transmitters synched with the receivers in the surveillance van. Tony appointed himself overseer of the wardrobe and spent, in both McGee's and Bishop's opinion, too much time bemoaning that he didn't get an Armani suit like McGee did.

"Tony, you're not _The Man_ tonight; you're _The Man_ 's right hand," Bishop reminded him. "McGee, I mean, Miller is the actual guy in charge. You can't look better than your boss."

Tony scoffed and shook his head, affecting his father's overly confident pose and expression.

"I always look better than McGee, what are you talking about?" he grinned as he slid his arms into his suit jacket. "I'm just saying if they needed me to tone down this suave exterior, they didn't need to do such a good job. These lapels are just… I don't like the cut of them. They're so… two years ago."

"They're fine," McGee elbowed him out of the way testily as he approached. "Your mic is in the second button of your shirt. You have a pin camera embedded in the top button of your jacket. Keep your hands away from both of them."

Tony made a face at him as McGee busied himself checking the strength of the transmission. He then handed Tony an ear piece. Feeling edgy and irritable, McGee considered remarking whether Tony knew where to stick it he refrained. He wasn't actually mad at Tony and knew he was just trying to lighten the mood. McGee was just tense. It wasn't precisely a feeling of imminent danger so much as it was the necessity not to fail. This was a one shot deal. If they blew this operation (if he blew it), the FBI might never get their hands on Paolo. That would leave him free to continuing trafficking in narcotics. NCIS had done well shutting down most parts of Paolo's business that had inroads to the Navy and Marines, but shutting the trade down entirely was what they truly wanted. This evening was supposed to be the culmination of more than a year of investigating.

"Still all quiet in the backyard?" Tony asked as he casually shifted subjects as he sensed McGee's tension.

McGee nodded understanding the reference. Both he and Abby had been stealing looks toward Gibbs' house during the previous few weeks while he remained absent. Vance had let the team know that Gibbs and his wife were not under protective custody any longer but were away to spend some time getting to know each other again. He never said whether they should expect Gibbs back, and they never asked.

"I'm thinking road trip to Vegas," Tony offered abruptly.

"You don't have time to go to Las Vegas," Bishop shook her head.

"No, I don't mean me," Tony corrected. "I mean Gibbs. I think he and Shannon took off for Vegas to get married again."

"Actually," McGee offered, "they were still married. She's Gibbs' first wife. That means technically his previous marriages were never legal. Therefore, he doesn't have to remarry Shannon."

"Huh," Tony nodded. "So does that make Gibbs a bigamist? Or polygamist?"

"Why do you ask things like that?" Bishop wondered as the door at the back of the evidence bay opened letting in the cool, fresh air of the late October afternoon.

"Because I'm an investigator," Tony announced proudly. "I see something worthy of questioning and I do."

"You do what?" Gibbs asked as he appeared before them.

He was dressed in his normal work attire. He carried a cup of coffee. His expression was expectant and on the edge of perturbed, just like any other day.

"I do, uh…, things," Tony said as he looked questioningly at his team who each shrugged. "Hey, uh Boss. What are you doing here?"

"I work here, DiNozzo," Gibbs replied as he walked to the computer showing the feed from the mini camera embedded in the clothing and nodded his approval.

"You did, I mean, you do, of course, you do," Tony said agitatedly. "I just… We thought you'd be… away… longer."

Tony then turned to McGee and mouthed the words ' _what the hell_?' He received a clueless shrug in return.

"I was away," Gibbs said. "Now, I'm here. McGee, you ready for this?"

McGee saw the earnestness in the man's expression and was reminded of countless times when the man asked him a similar question. Early on, McGee took those to be signs of wariness at his abilities. Later, they seemed more like scolding remarks so that he would not get cocky. This time, there was no insecurity or admonishment he sensed. Instead, McGee found it calmed him. Having Gibbs there was like…. well, having Gibbs there.

"Uh, yeah, I'm… ready," McGee nodded. "Uh, Boss, we were under the impression that you'd be on extended leave, what with everything that's happened, for a lot longer. Um, is there a reason you're here now?"

"My team, my show," Gibbs said curtly as if the question was ludicrous.

McGee smiled unconsciously for a moment but then exchanged a look with Tony. On some level both were glad to see their boss; on another, they were deeply confused but not willing to object to the man's arrival. They had scores of questions for him, but this did not seem to be the best time to ask any of them as Gibbs began to get a swift rundown of the night's operation from Bishop while she prepared to do her final check for their equipment in the van where she would spend the evening. As she did so, the elevator chimed and Ducky stepped out with Shannon on his arm, listening to him complete a tale that had the medical examiner laughing.

"So Jethro looks at the poor man and says in a rather irritated tone, ' _Yes, but I'd like my shoes cleaned first_ ,'" Ducky said as he wiped a tear from his eyes as he stripped off his glasses. "Ah, Jethro, I was just regaling Shannon about that time in Norfolk back in 1999 when we were…."

"I remember, Duck," Gibbs said as he caught the questioning stares of his team members. He next turned a softened gaze to his wife. "You finished your VIP tour?"

"VIP?" she repeated. "Let's see. I saw the lobby, two hallways and two elevators, which I am told sometimes serve as your private office. I'm impressed; there is technology all around this building and yet you still spend time here."

"It helps that he doesn't use most of it," Tony smiled.

His quip prompted a chuckle from McGee that stuck in his throat as Gibbs eyed them both coolly. Tony cleared his throat swiftly hoping to deflect attention on himself.

"Stop laughing, Probie," Tony scolded. "It's rude. Mrs. Gibbs, uh, hi… uh, again. You might remember me. I'm Very Special Ag…"

"Agent DiNozzo," Shannon smiled finishing his sentence. "Tony, right?"

He nodded eagerly and looked to Gibbs, who appeared to have nothing to say. Shannon did not appear to be in need of his services as she then turned to McGee and held out her hand.

"You must be Timothy McGee," she nodded. "I understand that we're neighbors."

"Uh, yes, Ma'am," McGee shook her hand. "We, that is Abby, my wife, and I live diagonal to your home. I wasn't aware you were living there. I mean, we didn't see anyone at the… not that we were looking, it's just…"

"Quit while you're behind, McFootInTheMouth," Tony spoke out of the corner of his mouth as he interrupted. "So, what brings you here, Ma'am? Are you applying for a job? We could always use another Gibbs. You may lack the experience, but you're much better looking than our existing model."

Tony felt Gibbs's heavy stare on the back of his head but kept his eyes forward. He feared he had a headslap coming, and even if he didn't receive it Gibbs' gaze might just turn him to stone. McGee rolled his eyes and shook his head slightly at the overt fawning. It reminded him partly of the way Tony reacted around his mother. Tony DiNozzo, the NCIS answer to Eddie Haskell.

"No, I am not here to join your agency," she said. "I just wanted to see this place for myself. I've come to understand how important this place and all of you have been to Jethro over the years. He's told me a lot about you. I feel like I almost know each of you."

Tony and McGee looked at each other with curiosity, uncertain what things Gibbs might have said.

"I usually dress better than this," Tony said quickly before cuffing the back of McGee's head. "Special Agent McDressUp here doesn't usually wear the thousand dollar suits. That's more my territory. He's the resigned McDigitHead whereas I do all the hard…"

"Bragging and sucking up?" Gibbs offered then turned to Ducky. "Are you two heading out?"

"Oh yes," the medical examiner nodded. "We have dinner reservations at six. Are you sure you won't join us, Jethro?"

"Another time," Gibbs replied. "We'll be a little busy here tonight."

"Very well then," Ducky replied holding out his arm once again to lead Shannon to the elevator. He waved lightly as he bid them farewell. "Anthony, Timothy, good luck with your endeavors this evening, whatever they may be. Eleanor, keep a watchful eye on them. You all can regale me at a later time about this adventure."

He gestured toward the elevator, but first Shannon detoured slightly and offered Gibbs a peck on the cheek and wished him luck. He nodded confidently, pointedly ignoring the stares of his two agents.

"I'll see you at home later?" she asked quietly.

"You will," Gibbs said.

Shannon nodded then smiled brightly and offered a small wave to McGee and Tony, who returned the gesture stiffly before looking again to Gibbs.

"You're back at your house?" McGee asked.

"No, McGee," Gibbs answered. "I'm at the Navy Yard. You sure your head is on straight for this?"

McGee shirked and shook his head as he processed what Gibbs said. He smiled guiltily at his foolish confusion then nodded.

"I'm fine," he said. "I'm just getting our comm gear set. Ellie's ready to head out in the van. We just need to do one field test at the scene to verify the feed's strength. Where they'll be parked and where Tony and I will be in the club is about 30 yards further away than from where we tested everything in here earlier. There's also a storm coming. In theory, the electromagnetics caused by any lightning from the charged atmosphere could interrupt the algorithm that the frequency is…"

"McGee," Gibbs barked as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll ask you again: Is your head on straight for this? Give me Tom Miller's answer."

Tony smirked, drawing a scowl from McGee who glared back then turned the hard and pissy look on Gibbs. It was a menacing and cold bitchface of epic proportions that was loaded with reviling and hinted at nasty thoughts for possible retribution behind the innocent green eyes. Gibbs was satisfied by what he saw.

"Good," Gibbs nodded. "Keep it that way. Finish gearing up. Fornell's calling with a final brief in an hour. Last member of the team is coming in now."

"Whoa," Tony shook his head as he objected. "Last member? You mean Fornell's other flunkies that he's got casing the place and looking like patrons, right? It's just me and McGee going in for the chitchat with Paolo. That was the plan yesterday."

"Nope, things change," Gibbs said. "I got briefed on this first thing this morning and requested a few additions. If we're going to do this, we're going to do it right and do it smart or we don't do it at all. You two on your own might make this work, but I like to tip the odds in our favor. Your party of two is getting a plus one."

McGee's breath caught in his chest. He didn't like a lot about this plan. They were out in the open with known drug dealers who would be armed. Although he and Tony would be as well, they were breaking serious protocol by not wearing vests. While McGee still felt a little claustrophobic anytime he had to don one, he understood that technically—all personal history aside—he was safer wearing one. However, as they were going to a DC nightclub that had just opened the previous week to rave reviews—which was hilarious to those in the know as the club was created and run entirely by the FBI for the purpose of surveillance on several long term targets—Kevlar vests would stand out in the posh attire required to enter the club.

McGee also did not like that there would be civilians milling all around them. That was the price of using the FBI's front for this operation. They needed the club to look and feel real, so in essence, it was a real night hangout for the well-to-do of the District. At least with the handful of armed and well-trained agents at strategic points around the club and Tony as his wingman, McGee felt confident. He had met each agent who would have his back that night. Throwing a new guy into the mix to sit at the table with him and Tony was inviting trouble. It risked messing up their rhythm. He and Tony might squabble on occasion, but they could read each other easily. Someone new would mess up their flow.

"Boss, I don't think that's a good idea," Tony shook his head, his thoughts were perfectly aligned with McGee's in this instance. "McGee and I got this. It's like this: Two is company; three equals a screw up. Someone new at the last minute is…"

He jumped a split second later when a voice he was not expecting joined the conversation.

"What about someone not precisely new?" Ziva asked as she walked into the room carrying a garment bag over her shoulder.

"Ziva?" McGee gaped as Tony pressed his hand to his heart and gasped for breath. "You?"

A relieved grin had begun to tug at the corners of his mouth and the tension building in his shoulders visibly relaxed, which was what Gibbs wanted to see. Tom Miller might be a cold and unamused son of a bitch, but he needed to look relaxed. Gibbs knew there was no way McGee would be able to exude that air of confidence, like he had the whole world under control and didn't give a damn if Paolo showed up or agreed to do business, with just Tony at his side in this instance. There were too many variables that could go wrong and if there was one thing McGee understood better than most it was variables.

"Yes," Ziva nodded. "Me. The CIA is interested in what Mr. Paolo has to say and would like to question him about his international dealings when the FBI is done. By joining the operation, we are a party to it as far as information gathering goes."

Tony snorted, thinking it just as likely that those higher up at the CIA than Ziva were hoping to simply take over the drug trade for their own purposes in the same vein that former operative Trent Kort took over the a money laundering operation for the company's (and his own) gain in the past.

"So you're joining us for this," Tony remarked. "As my what precisely?"

He attempted to take a peek in her bag but got his hand slapped and earned a cold and menacing stare.

"I am not your anything," she said sharply as she walked to McGee and smiled at him provocatively. "I am Tom Miller's mistress—a Chilean national who is his love-slave, I believe is the way it was described to me. I speak no English, but _Tomas_ and I do not need words to communicate."

She grinned salaciously then dragged her finger across McGee's cheek then tapped his cheek lightly and winked at him before heading toward the back to change into her attire for the evening. Both Tony and McGee's eyes followed her with slack-jawed expressions. McGee's expression was a combination of vacuous and relieved. Tony looked like he had something sour in his mouth but was starting to enjoy the sensation.

"Well," Tony said clapping McGee on the shoulder. "Apparently, you're the one sleeping with the psycho ninja chick on this one. Good luck with that. Word of warning, she's got impulse control issues and extremely strong thighs. Oh, and her knees and elbows are sharp. They leave marks."

McGee shuddered at the comment and turned a perturbed look on his partner before looking back at Gibbs for some guidance.

"The plan before was good," Gibbs nodded in a satisfied way. "Now, it's better."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

Several minutes later, Ziva returned to the staging area while putting on a pair of shiny earrings as she modeled her persona's wardrobe for the evening. It was a slinky, spangled, dark blue dress slit high up her thigh with silver stiletto heels. Her hair was pinned up on one side but otherwise fell loose and wild at her shoulders.

"So these men represent the last testicle of this investigation?" she asked approach the group gathered around Gibbs's desk.

Tony blinked at the question and offered the recently arrived Fornell a glance seeking to see which of them would be correcting her. They came to a draw so Bishop took it upon herself to do so.

"I think you mean tentacle not testicle," Bishop offered helpfully.

"Same thing to her," Tony chided. "Here's a bigger issue: Is anyone going to believe Ziva is McGee's bed buddy? She's like a Bond Girl here where as he is… well… our absentminded professor, the defunct novelist Thom E. Gemcity."

McGee entered the garage bay with Vance following. He was now in his costume as well. It was an Armani suit that looked every penny of the thousand dollar price tag Tony estimated. One of the women from the armory had dropped by earlier and messed with McGee's hair, giving it a more roguish playboy/less Boy Scout style, but it was the innocence that always radiated from his eyes that worried Tony. He feared that if McGee couldn't maintain a solid prick-level expression for the rest of the night, they were sunk. He previously achieved the look as Miller when he was cranky, tired and still in pain from being shot. What Tony saw before him that night was… his probie.

Others were not so worried.

"From what I see, he will achieve mustard," Ziva said nodding appreciatively at her date's appearance.

McGee appeared oblivious to their critique as he went to the computer and checked the signals from the covert communication devices they would be using that evening.

"The term is pass muster," Tony scolded, "and you don't speak English tonight, remember that. So, we're really sure Paolo is going to believe Miller just disappeared for like a year and a half without a real reason."

It had been Tony's primary gripe (other than McGee taking the lead in this) for the operation. The whole thing felt a little too much like something McGee would write in a novel—and Tony didn't have a lot of faith in his partner's plot lines. Then again, he reminded himself, McGee was Tom Miller not Tom Clancy for the evening.

"He has a reason," Fornell offered. "Tom Miller was shot by the jealous husband of one of his lovers."

McGee looked painfully and apologetically at Ziva.

"Your husband in this case," he revealed. "He was later killed by someone I hired. Very sorry for your loss."

She smiled approvingly at McGee.

"My condolences on your injury and my eternal thanks for your recovery," she grinned and lightly pinched McGee's cheek. " _Estoy emanorado_."

Tony grimaced at the affectionate line and the flirtatious way she uttered it. He was still having a hard time picturing it, her and McRomeo, making it believable. He hoped the club in Rossilyn, VA, called Bolt, was dark and distracting enough that one on would pay too close attention to the mix matched ' _lovers_.'

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Abby and McGee's Home_**

Penny closed the front door after having given out the latest round of candy to the neighborhood trick-or-treating set. She arrived around 5 p.m. with Carol—a planned drop in that her grandson set in motion. It was not that he did not trust his childhood friend with this wife. Much the opposite, Penny suspect. He was a bit worried Carter would be overwhelmed by a full, uninterrupted day with Abby.

When she and Carol arrived, Penny could see the tension and unease in the former SEAL's face. He knew about combat and stressful situations, but nothing had truly prepared him for Abby. Of course, the great-grandmother-to-be could see quickly that their timing was impeccable. She took to manning the door for the costumed kiddies while Carol set about bringing some calm to the rest of the house.

"That's the fourth Chewbacca I've seen so far," Penny remarked as she took a seat near the door. "It's like the 1980s all over again except these costumes were probably made by poor children in Malaysia in sweat shops."

Her comment was ignored, however, as Carter (who was still standing at attention in the living room) continued to plead his case. He was in a twist about the course of the afternoon's discussion. He was unprepared for the estrogen-level of his day's conversations and was making that known.

"Are you still whining about a little human biology lesson?" Penny wondered as Carol kept a careful eye on her watch while waiting for Abby to return to the living room.

"No," he shook his head. "All I am saying is that when Tim said, 'Hey, come over on Friday and get to know Abby,' I didn't think he meant I'd be getting a lecture about… lady parts and what they can do other than look good from the outside. See, now I get it. He ambushed me, or he had her do it. I'm telling you both know, I'm gonna have words with him about this 'cause I figured out his game. He's not the sweet, innocent person you think he is. He's… calculating."

Carol nodded unconcerned as she yawned slightly.

"Impishly devious and strategic, too," she added without concern.

"Right," Carter bobbed his head eagerly. "He got me this time. I admit that. He's off playing John McClane or Elliot Ness or whatever Mr. Federal Agent is supposed to be tonight while I am here being punished because he hates my singing. I did that to him weeks ago, so Abby (then later both of you) spent all this time giving me reasons to never look at a woman the same way again. For the record, if I never hear the word dilation again, my life won't suffer any."

Carol cleared her throat pointedly to halt his diatribe. She pointed deftly at a chair and hit him with a displeased mother look that prompted the SEAL to bow his head and sit.

"Oh, Carter," Penny shook her head pityingly. "Timothy had nothing to do with this. You've been had by two people older and even wiser than my beloved grandson. Carol and I have listened to your grandiose babble and watched your arrogant little strut for a few weeks now, and we thought it was time for you to be humbled and… well, a little embarrassed. We do this because we love you and felt that it was best for you and your slightly inflated ego. Trust me. Two preceding generations of McGee men were put through the same thing on a much larger scale for longer periods, and they turned out pretty swell, if you ask me."

Carter blushed apologetically as he hung his head.

"Two generations?" he ventured. "The admirals, I'm guessing."

"Of course," Penny nodded. "Nelson needed a lot of work when I met him, and I had to do all of that heavy lifting solo. Then along came John. Just when I thought I was the conquering hero, my son decided to join the Navy like his father. Whatever advancements I made with John, Annapolis erased, which left poor Carol basically at square one with him."

She patted her daughter-in-law on the shoulder in comfort and solidarity.

"I saw the insurmountable task of fully civilizing and socializing him enough to understand the world did not revolve around his needs and wants," Carol smiled. "I made my assessment swiftly then wisely did a tactical retreat from that plan and redeployed my forces elsewhere. With Penny's help and guidance, we made sure Timothy overcame any genetic or environmental predisposition toward being an ass."

"Rock on," Penny raised a fist in victory as she grinned. "Mission accomplished."

Carter snorted his laughter but kept his mouth shut rather than mention he thought them both lunatics and considered it a miracle McGee hadn't been outright afraid of women after spending so much of his childhood at their mercy.

As they spoke, Abby waddled back into the room from her latest trip to the bathroom. Her face was twisted in discomfort and worry. No news from the office was good news, but that did not help her mind from whirring at a dizzying pace as all the possible scenarios where something could go wrong unspooled in her head. Her anxiety was only made worse by how she was feeling physically.

"It's time to call Dr. Shinseki again," she seethed as she gripped the side of the couch for support.

Carter swiftly swiped Abby's phone from the coffee table and lofted it expertly to Carol, who caught it and began to scroll through the contract list. For Carter, calling in an airstrike was no big deal. Calling for permission to take the shot and end someone's life was as well. He wasn't sure on the protocol for calling a doctor to see if the time was right to have a baby… or two.

"You also need to call Gibbs," Abby added as she grimaced in pain once more.

The routine had been going on throughout the afternoon. Carter was glad for the presence of the other women. He was not a nervous man by nature or training. Driving Abby to the hospital or even carrying her there on foot, he could manage without raising his blood pressure any, but talking her through a contraction or relaying information about contractions to doctors seemed like something a woman should do.

"Why Gibbs?" he asked. "What's his role in all this?"

"He'll be with Tim," she huffed as Penny moved close to her and gripped her hand. "Make sure Gibbs tells him not to come home when he's done tonight."

As far as he knew, McGee was just 10 minutes away in Roslyn and could be coming home any minute if the explanation he gave for the operation that evening was accurate. Even if she needed to go to the hospital, his watch said the contractions were still 22 minutes apart—just as they had been since 2 that afternoon. Abby had initially joked about Carter needing to deliver the babies himself but there was no smile on her face or joke in her voice now.

"Why can't he come home?" Carter asked.

"I'll need him with me at the hospital," Abby groaned. "My water just broke."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Club Bolt_**

The club was dark with strategic ambient lighting. Tables were situated around the large room, some set into deep corners for extra privacy. The music from the DJ filled the air and made the glasses on the tables rattle slightly. The room was full but not jammed beyond fire code capacity. In the most remote corner, five people sat in a tense knot around a table.

Ziva and Tony flanked McGee as they each faced two men. All indications were both were armed and on alert but not yet overly suspicious of their companions. They had talked little about the business at hand. There was discussion of some international politics—namely the impact the louder and more bombastic of the presidential candidates was having on trade relations and what that might mean for future economic endeavors.

The older of the men was broad-chested with a shaved head. His dark stare was cold and punishing. His name was Rick Warner, a former Army Ranger now rumored to be a part-time arms dealer and full time enforcer for the Cardosa drug cartel. Finding him at the table was surprising, but Bishop was able to get a clear shot of his face and feed the team intermittent biographic info through their concealed ear pieces. It was a choppy report as the storm raging outside made the transmission as spotty as McGee feared it might be. However, he was less concerned with getting what they needed recorded. The transmission was one thing; the finely tuned recording devices they wore ran on a separate circuit and at such a close range would not be hindered by the storm. The transmission to the van outside was recording as a backup plan but also simply to keep their handlers apprised of what was happening in case backup needed to be summoned.

The other man at the table was the one who was the focus of the discussion. Vincent Paolo, aka former Navy Lieutenant Darren Grayson, MIT graduate, cyber terrorist, and (apparently) drug king pin who took over Cardosa cartel and the muscled a retired DEA agent out of his role as the head of the drug ring using the Navy as its transporter. Unlike other targets the agents investigated, Grayson had the skills to cut through most backstopped ID's. It was that, rather than his other nefarious and illicit businesses, that made him a danger to the Feds that night.

"Have you seen Miranda recently?" Paolo asked McGee.

McGee shook his head. The only thing keeping his ID solid, he knew, was that Pennybaker stuck out her neck a year earlier and vouched for the ID that had been years in the making to create the rare full cover legend.

"Heard she dropped off the grid," Paolo continued. "Didn't know if that was because of the little party we attended last year."

"I never keep track of her," McGee replied. "I find fewer reasons to want her dead that way."

Tony snorted then clapped him on the shoulder roughly. He was watching two computer geeks from the same alma mater square off as if they were big-time bad asses. Granted, Paolo was the head of an organized crime syndicate, but he had taken over like a hacker rather than earning his bones by working and breaking his way through the ranks.

As for McGee, he was handed his bad-boy credentials in a dosier and told to study them like a good little student. Still, Tony had been impressed with McGee thus far. To those who knew him well, he gave off an undeniable air of nerves and anxiety. Somehow, he was able to channel that into more of a prick-in-charge attitude when addressing their colleagues for the evening. Whenever he seemed to be getting nearer to sounding squirrely than surly, Ziva liberally doled out a rambling pouting fit about needing a drink, wanting to go somewhere else, feeling bored. Tony doubted McGee understood half of what she said, but that too simply played well into the legend of Tom Miller.

His own ID was less robust so that gave him plenty of room for improvising—something he considered a personal specialty. Luckily, the FBI was smart when creating his and gave him the first name of Tony. He wasn't sure McGee could have remembered more false names in his current tense state. He was playing Tom Miller's cousin and lawyer, Tony Riggins. Thus far, he had done much of the talking, drawing the ire from

"Okay, we've done enough chit chat about mutual friends," Warner said abruptly. "What is your goal?"

"My goal?" Tony grinned and chuckled as he sprawled comfortably in his seat and made eyes at a passing waitress. "My goal is the goal of every virile man in this country closer to 50 than his liking: Find a way to eat more bacon and have more sex."

McGee rolled his eyes at the comment and offered Tony a suffering look.

"This is why Tony doesn't do my final negotiations," he offered. "He finds prospects; he gives me a feasibility report and a risk analysis, but I have the final say. You know what I can offer you and you showed up tonight, but you aren't saying much. Tell me: Are we at the point where I even need to be here for this discussion, or do I leave you alone with Tony for a while?"

Paolo and Warner exchanged a look. It was ripe with doubt and held tinges of offense.

"You understand my caution—after all, I have a few questions for you, Tom," Paolo said. "You've been absent an awful long time. Lot of rumors out there. Some say you were just laying low after our brush with the AFT last year. Other stories say you got awful cozy with the Feds after our meeting was unfortunately interrupted."

McGee shook his head and leaned back in his seat. Ziva continued to look around the room as though she was not listening. She kept huddled close to McGee, nestled under his arm and partially draped on him. Tony cut his eyes at them but kept his thoughts from showing on his face.

"If you believed Tom was all cozy with Uncle Sam, you wouldn't be here," Tony boasted. "If this is part of your strategy, you're wasting Tom's time. Tom doesn't like it when people waste his time. That's what I'm for; I deal with people who waste Tom's time."

"Give us a minute," Paolo said and pushed away from the table.

He and his lieutenant stepped closer to the bar. Tony and McGee kept them in sight as the sound of thunder rumbled lightly under the pulsing music of the club. The radio transmissions in their ear pieces had been oddly silent for a while. That either spoke of great confidence in how the discussion was progressing or evidence of a huddle occurring in the van to hatch a hasty Plan B due to the team's failure to get anything useful from their guests.

"He's not buying it," McGee sighed.

"No, he's just not sure," Tony counseled. "If he wasn't buying it entirely, he wouldn't be at the bar. He'd have left or invited us to join him outside."

"Yeah, and then shot us and taken off," McGee groaned with his fear flaring briefly in his eyes as Ziva abruptly stood up. "Where are you going?"

"It has been too quiet," she said leaning close in a sensual way that did not match the ire in her eyes. "I feel a wire slipping, and I suspect my transporter has come disconnected."

"Transponder," McGee corrected as he spied Paolo and his associate returning to the table. "That would explain the radio silence. You're wearing the signal booster. If Gibbs can't hear us at all, we might not be recording anything either. This wasn't supposed to happen."

Ziva raised her hand swiftly and slapped McGee soundly on the cheek once then raised her hand to do so a second time. Tony winced but did not interfere as she moved to strike again but found her hand caught stiffly about the wrist.

"Enough," McGee said as he gripped her hand while Paolo smirked and settled into his chair again. "I get it. _Deje_."

Ziva snorted at the order to leave and stomped away, making a bee line for the ladies room. Tony cleared his throat and grimaced.

"I warned you," Tony chided him. "She's got impulse control issues. Telling her to leave… risky, Tommy. Then again, maybe this time you'll get lucky and she will."

"You wish," McGee replied then turned his attention again to their companions. "So, are you done stalling and wasting my time? Business, gentlemen. Either we are in it together or I am leaving."

Tony grinned. He hoped they had more questions—not because he wanted their doubt to grow, but because the rule was Tony's job was to field most questions for his boss. That left Tony in the driver's seat. McGee had done well, much better than Tony anticipated, but he was waning as the night dragged on. Now, knowing their transmissions might not be as clear and strong as needed, his head was undoubtedly driving into the techno side of things. Normally, that would not be a problem, but Tom Miller was established as an off the grid persona who did not even carry a cell phone. Shifting McGee back to his safety zone ran the risk of having him let slip something that should be outside Miller's repertoire. Also, the longer they talked, the more time there was for Ziva to return having (hopefully) fixed the problem on her own.

"So, what's her name again?" Warner asked as Ziva disappeared from view.

"Catalina," McGee replied.

"Right, she's Colombian?" he wondered.

"Chilean by birth," McGee replied. "Colombian by circumstance."

Warner nodded and scoffed the word ' _convenient_.' Neither McGee nor Tony shifted or (they hoped) showed any sign of fear at their apparent suspicions of Ziva. Both offered bland and disinterested expressions.

"We heard you were in Chile for a good part of the last year," Paolo said in a calculated way.

"Yeah," McGee nodded sticking to the scripted details Fornell provided him. "For a time. I like the climate. Nice mountains. If not for that pesky little extradition treaty, I might consider staying."

Warner took that moment to join the discussion again. When he spoke, McGee lifted his eyes and sealed his lips. Inside, he was impressed at the work the FBI had done to prepare for this mission. Whether they actually had a role in killing the drug dealer at the heart of the discussion or merely capitalized on his death and then manipulated the stories to their advantage he did not know. Nor, at that moment, did he care.

"Victor Reyes," Warner said suggestively. "Now, that is a nice reaction, Mr. Miller. Of course, it could be practiced. Yeah, word is Victor is not one of your favorite people."

Tony scoffed and chuckled dryly.

"Word should be that he's no longer a person or a problem," he said. "It's no secret that Tommy and Victor never saw eye-to-eye. We'll call it creative differences. We had to terminate that partnership to explore other endeavors."

Warner craned his neck to look for Ziva. Not seeing her, he then turned sharp eyes back to his companions.

"She's Reyes' wife, isn't she?" he asked urgently.

"Widow," McGee answered succinctly.

"If you look carefully," Tony grinned, "you can see the grief in her eyes."

Paolo lifted an eyebrow showing his interest. He leaned casually on the table.

"Victor's death was reported as accidental poisoning," he remarked.

"Yeah," Tony nodded and sighed and shaped his fingers into a gun. "Got to be careful where you keep lead. Those overdoses can be murder."

McGee snorted his displeasure and scowled deeply. He, too, leaned on the table and was terse when he spoke.

"Are we here to talk about Reyes, or find a new business venture?" he asked. "I've got no time for one and only a limited time for the other. I'm catching a flight in three hours. There are several things I'd rather be doing with that time than talking to you—especially if you aren't interested in a deal."

Paolo's expression soured. Tony shifted in his seat, scanning the room for any indication that the man's entourage (possibly individuals they had not yet identified in the crowd) were paying additional attention to the group. As Paolo leaned back, he nodded to his lieutenant to relax.

"Hard to do business when you don't have trust," Paolo said. "The last time I saw you, I was nearly arrested."

"I could say the same for you," McGee replied. "If you want to discuss trust, you claimed you were working for someone else that day—a guy named Darren Grayson, but that's actually your real name, isn't it? That makes one of us a confirmed liar. Look, our business may not be mainstream, but that's all the more reason for honor between us. I'll tell you now, I don't do business with those I can't trust. Word is your operation is on the Fed's radar."

Tony leaned in as well as he picked up the negotiation.

"We hear they shut down your most reliable transports, but they can't get their hands on the product supply," he offered. "You've got a product to move but no convenient and trustworthy way to move it. We can help you with that, but we can also let you hang. I see a chance to increase my employer's profits with very little effort, but I also see a chance for you to screw him."

"So here is my final request," McGee said curtly. "Lay your deal on the table or get the hell out of my sight."

Tony tensed, fearing McGee had pushed too much when Paolo's stare became hard. That was the trick with an undercover operation. You needed to play your role but you needed to also play God and try to manipulate the situation to your precise needs. Establishing Miller as an international badass was work the FBI already did; Tony worried McGee was trying to re-emphasize a point already made.

But when Paolo then huffed and shrugged, the animosity in his posture shifted subtly to curiosity.

"I have a hell of an opportunity for you—if you can show me that you are to be trusted," Paolo said skeptically. "The mysterious Tom Miller has been something of a phantom for a few years, often mentioned, rarely met, hard to find. Then you fell off the grid entirely last year after Miranda introduced us. No one disappears that long and that well."

Tony leaned forward and shook his head.

"You said you know about Reyes," he offered flatly.

"He died," Warner said bluntly.

"It's the how that makes it a good story," Tony replie. "He caught his wife screwing one of his business partners so he sent someone to pop the guy in his own bed. Then Reyes himself mysteriously died a month later of poisoning. Colombian authorizes saw no reason to investigate."

Tony smiled as he saw the slightest contraction of Paolo's eyes, a sign he was listening on believe them. His expression was genuinely eager to have information on something that apparently had puzzled him for a long while. His need to know opened the door for Tony to take more of the weight and heat of the questioning.

"In the interest of building a beautiful business relationship on a foundation of trust, I should clarify a few more details about that," Tony smirked and cut his eyes at McGee. "First off, Catalina's lover obviously didn't die. And the Colombian authorities saw no reason to investigate because one of their people… Let's just say he could have written the police report before the coroner was summoned seeing as he had a first person view of the, uh, poisoning. Damn useful having friends on the job. God bless policemen everywhere."

He offered the last bit as a grandiose swipe at the drug dealers in front of him and a sly tip of the hat to law enforcement. Had his earwig been working, he was certain Gibbs and Fornell would be warning him not to get cute again. But his words had the effect he was hoping for. Warner, just as Tony suspected and expected, jumped back in like the good Doubting Thomas he was paid to be. He shook his head and twisted his face in disbelief.

"It's too cute and convenient of a story," he said. "You were working a deal with Paolo a year ago when the Feds appeared, Miller. You managed to escape then there is this little story all about where you were all this time and why no one could find you. Are we to believe you were recovering from the bullets of a jealous man?"

Before either Tony or McGee could respond, Paolo jerked his chin at Warner. The man suddenly rounded on McGee and seized him by the shoulders. Another of his guards, one that Tony suspected was with them but had not been confirmed until that moment, put a gun in Tony's ribs, essentially freezing the agents in place.

"Shot point blank multiple times yet you sit here with the alleged widow?" Paolo clucked his tongue and shook his head. "Sorry. Not believing it."

He then nodded at his bodyguard, who yanked on the front of McGee's shirt. The small onyx studs that held the shirt closed then released revealing the long, angry scar on McGee's chest. Paolo blinked rapidly then gaped as he waved off his henchmen. Paolo's and Warner's faces paled as McGee yanked his arms free then adjusted the shirt front again and began clipping the fasteners in place while Tony wrestled loose as well. The senior agent fought to keep his eyes forward rather than on his partner as the static in his ear now seemed to be a more serious problem. After this abrupt shift, there should have been commands being barked in their ears rather than silence hissing at them.

"Point blank, yes," McGee said in a forcefully calm voice. "Multiple shots? No. Reyes wasn't exactly skilled with a pistol. Two misses, one hit."

"You understand that I had to be certain," Paolo said mildly apologetically.

McGee scoffed and offered him a cold look.

"Smart in business, I can respect," he said rudely as he spied Ziva approaching but signaling to him to join her away from the table. "Ruining a perfectly good shirt in the process, I do not. Now, we've talked enough about last year. We're supposed to talking about the future. I'll leave you for a minute to collect your thoughts. Tony, when I return, let me know if we're staying."

Tony grunted his approval as McGee left the table. He watched as Ziva slinked to McGee's side and snaked her arms around him then pulled him toward a darkened corner not far from the table.

"Where is he going?" Warner asked.

Tony smirked as Ziva then bit McGee's ear and pinned him with a smoldering look. He felt a pang of jealousy that he fought hard to keep from his face while watching his two friends.

"His feisty senoirita gets jealous if he talks business too much," Tony replied. "This is how she apologizes for her little tantrums. It's a game they play. She gets mad. He ignores her. She pouts then forgives him. He buys her something from Prada or Tiffany's, and the game starts again. Put that sad little love story out of your minds, gentlemen, and start talking. So what do you propose for us that will convince me to signal Tom to come back here, because I've got to tell you, he's getting a better offer right now."

They looked over their shoulders to see Ziva luring McGee into the corner. In that darkened and lonely spot more than a dozen feet away, Ziva leaned in and whispered in his ear.

"We have a problem," she said urgently as she bit down on his lobe for visual effect.

"Yeah, my ear," McGee grumbled. "Don't nibble it, or I'll start laughing."

"I bit not nibbled," Ziva said harshly as she stepped further into the shadows as though to seek seclusion with him. "But that is not the problem. My transponder is falling apart."

To prove her point, she pulled the fabric of her dress aside and turned the underwire of her bra, that doubled as an antenna, out so he could see it was detached in several areas. McGee blinked, forcing himself to focus on the small gadget rather than the fact that Ziva had essentially just flashed him. To help with that concentration, Ziva grabbed him roughly and pulled him close.

"Fix it, McGee," she ordered. "Gibbs and Fornell cannot hear you. The transmitter I am carrying is malfunctioning. They are only getting half of what Tony and our guests are saying. Gibbs and Fornell are calling for a sitrep. I can now hear them, but they can barely hear us. As this seems to be news to you, you apparently cannot hear them. I believe it is this disconnected wire. They are saying the video is fine, but there is no clear audio. The rest of the noise in here is too loud."

McGee began to panic. He was trying to think of some means to send them a message not to raid the club and shut down the operation when it could possibly be salvaged. It was likely just a loose lead in Ziva's transmitter causing the problem. The trick, of course, was letting those in the van know and then getting the fix in place. Ziva, it seemed, had already reached that conclusion.

"While in the bathroom, I held up a note in the mirror to tell them we would try to fix it, but they are calling for us to pull out if we don't get that done in three minutes," she said. "Gibbs is… cranky. Fornell is nervous."

"He's not the only one," McGee exhaled in a rush. "Okay, we need to go someplace that's…"

"No," Ziva commanded, pulling him closer and hiking her leg high onto his as she did so and encircled him with her thigh and calf. "There is no time. Do it here."

McGee blanched at the suggestion and her sinfully close embrace.

"Here?" he gaped. "Ziva, we're in plain sight. It's down your dress and in a spot that… Look, I can't get at it in a polite way."

She scoffed and tossed her hair as she pulled his face down closer to hers. Despite the appearance of their pose to onlookers, there was nothing erotic or sensual about her terse command in his ear.

"Forget polite, McGee," she ordered. "I need professional. Now, put your hands in my dress and fix the wire now or I will show you how I bruised Tony's ribs with when we went undercover at that hotel. Work quickly. I will cover for you."

Before he could ask how, she yanked McGee into kiss. He struggled briefly, which only added to the impression it was passionate to those who were watching. A quick squeeze of her leg prompted him to get his hands moving as they pressed into the wall of the dark corner. McGee's hands fiddled and fumbled as he tried to secure the loose wire. Ziva nibbled on his neck, making it look like he was doing the same to her as he continued the frantic fixing.

"Stop fighting me, McGee," she warned. "Just work through the slit in the side of my dress and get that the wire and the transmitter back into my bra."

His mind was reeling as he silently scolded her for getting near his ear—a devastatingly ticklish spot that Abby liked to target in her friskier moods. Back at the table, Tony observed them with intense interest. His brow furrowed deeply as he frowned.

"I think we may need a spatula to get her off him," he remarked casually. "Widowhood makes her lonely. Very, very… very lonely. Ah, there we go. Looks like she's letting him coming up for air. Finally."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Surveillance Van_**

Rain drummed loudly on the room and lashed the sides of the van as the storm outside raged. Lighting occasionally made the monitors flicker, but Bishop assured the two lead agents that the records would not show the glitches.

"Ziva's transmitter is working again," Gibbs remarked then spoke to them through the ear pieces. "Good job, folks."

He distinctly hear McGee mutter ' _she's going to kill me_ ' but Gibbs wasn't sure if he meant Ziva or Abby in instance. However, as a comm check went, it was a successful transmission. Gibbs supposed if there was a heart monitor on McGee at that moment it would sound like someone about ready to go code blue.

"That was an interesting approach to fixing things," Fornell observed as he relaxed slightly while smirking. "I didn't think McGee had it in him."

"Neither did he," Gibbs noted.

Bishop sighed at their restrained mirth at her teammate's expense.

"As soon as he's done here, he'll working on his apologize to Abby for this," she offered.

Gibbs nodded.

"Ziva, too," he added.

"Why Ziva?" Fornell asked. "It was her plan."

"That's just Tim," Bishop nodded knowingly.

She was startled a moment later when Gibbs' phone rang. It surprise her that he answered it. Normally when on what was essentially a stake out, he ignored the phone unless it was from someone important. As far as she knew, all the key players for the evening were either in the club or in the van.

"Abby, he's still…," Gibbs began but stopped. "Oh, hello…. Is there a….? Now?... Right… Okay… Yeah, I'll see to that…. You have my word."

He disconnected as a pensive look graced his face. Bishop kept an ear cocked as she looked sideways at him. From his newly alert posture, obviously the call was not expected but from his lack of action it also did not appear that it was bad news for the mission. She suspected it was simply Abby calling to check in. Her nervousness was expected. Bishop actually felt badly for her and hoped they could finish the operation soon for Abby's sake. Fornell seemed to be of the same mind.

"Everything alright?" the FBI agent asked.

"Yeah," Gibbs nodded. "Just some marching orders for when we done here tonight."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** _And next comes the end…_

 _For those who have asked how to obtain my original novels, there are new links on my author page that have ebook and paperback links for US and worldwide availability. Thanks again for supporting my writing. I appreciate it._


	57. Chapter 57

**_oOoOoOo_**

 ** _FBI Surveillance Van_**

 ** _Rosslyn, VA_**

Fornell shot out of his seat and threw open the doors to the surveillance van as he shouted into his comm device. Gibbs and Bishop were out of their seats and on his heels into the raging storm instantly as he gave his orders.

"That's the signal!" Fornell shouted as he marshalled his troops to move in. "Go! Move! Move! Move!"

Gibbs roughly pushed past Bishop as he drew his gun. He was at Fornell's back while barking questions of his own.

"What signal?" Gibbs demanded as they were lashed by the onslaught of rain. "What's going on? Who else is in there?"

"Guardian angels," Fornell snapped but quickened his step as gunshots rang out over the airwaves. "Shots fired!"

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Club BOLT—interior_**

Lights flashed as the dimly lit club suddenly had the lights thrown on high. The sound of the DJ stopped abruptly as screams and shouts filled the air. The floor shook like a stampeding herd of cattle was rushing by. The undercover agents formerly at the table lay in a heap on the floor as chaos reigned above them with shouts of "Federal Agent" and predictable orders to either freeze or vacate the premises. There was also a call for medical personnel.

"I knew this would not be my night," McGee groaned from his place on the floor as the shock of the previous few minutes settled in his mind and the aches in his body made themselves known. "Ow."

His head hurt. His back hurt. His shoulders hurt. His pride, what little of it he possessed, was probably curled into a little ball in the corner weeping quietly. He blinked several times to clear the stars from his vision. Breathing was difficult as a heavy weight, roughly 200 pounds, pressed hard against his chest as a cacophony of sounds chattered in his earpiece, which was partially dislodged and making understanding the voices difficult.

"Tony, get off me," McGee gasped as he struggled to wiggle from under his sheltering partner.

"Hey, if I said you had a beautiful body, would hold it…?" Tony began but did not get to finish his quip as a liquidy substance began to drip from his forehead onto his face and startled him. "Did I get shot in the head playing your bodyguard?"

"No," McGee growled. "Just get off me."

As Tony continued to wonder, he rolled off his protective position on top of his partner. He cautiously reached his hand up and felt something wet and slick in his hair. He squinted in the darkness as lights around the chaotic room flickered as the FBI agents stormed the room and took control of the scene. On his hand he spied a lilac colored liquid. It dripped profusely from the windowsill just above where he threw his body on top of McGee as Warner and Paolo pulled weapons and began firing. Their rounds obliterated the blacked out windows, letting in the night's monsoon, and shattered the various (and apparently fruity) drink glasses resting on the sill. The contents continued to drip down on the agent. Realizing it was not blood but a mixture of rain, vodka, blue curacao and cranberry juice (the ingredients of a drink he recalled Jeanne Benoit adored), he grinned. He then smirked and belted out the lyrics that gave the concoction its name.

"Purple rain," he chuckled as then began to sing. "Purple rain, purple rain..."

"What?" McGee asked finally able to catch his breath.

" _I never meant to cause you any sorrow_ ," Tony crooned as he licked the colorful liquid from his fingers. " _I never meant to cause you any pain_."

"Then stop singing," McGee grumbled. "I also don't want to hear how you hooked up with the head of the cheerleading squad to that song."

"Not a cheerleader, a chorus girl," Tony grinned. "See, I had the cassette tape in my first car, and…"

McGee stopped listening and lifted his head from the floor. As he did so, he noted a pair of scuffed shoes beside his head. He followed the line of the leg attached to those shoes upward to see Gibbs peering down at him with an impatient expression.

"You two done taking a nap and rolling around together?" Gibbs asked.

"I just thought since we're in a bar that it was time for some karoke, Boss," Tony quipped as he clawed the wall and pulled himself to a standing position before offering McGee a hand up. "Besides, McSuave looked so fetching in his Armani, I couldn't help myself."

McGee groaned and rolled his eyes as he shot an ugly, warning look at his grinning partner. Gibbs paid the remark no attention.

"You both alright?" he asked.

The two agents looked questioningly at each other. Neither appeared to be leaking blood, which was always a good sign. They shrugged to each other then nodded to Gibbs as Fornell approached with a satisfied grin.

"The US Attorney's office will go over the tapes and see if we've got enough to move on drug trafficking charges up front, but we've at least got them on the weapons charges for now," he said. "Carrying concealed weapons without a permit is a weak charge, but it'll let us hang on to them for a bit, and it's the weekend so I don't think we'll be finding a judge anytime soon for an arraignment. Oh well."

He grinned delightedly at the continued good fortune of running tricky and tenuous ops on a Friday night.

"Glad letting them try to shoot us was helpful," Tony snarked. "You didn't think to tell us that you had someone else with the power to throw the kill switch on this operation? Paolo only drew on us when one of your guys flashed him a badge. What were they doing? We didn't call for you to move in."

"Someone gave the signal, so my team stepped in," Fornell said. "I don't know what triggered it yet. I just know it happened. Look, you knew the deal. If anyone inside thought this was going sideways that they'd flash the Bat Signal and we would…"

"Storm the castle?" Tony quipped as he continued to try straightening his hair now getting sticky from the sweet liqueurs. "Who used tripped signal?"

Fornell offered his tightlipped expression that made Gibbs glower, but the answer was close by.

"I did," Ziva said as she walked awkwardly, stepping higher on one foot then dropping several inches to the floor with the next step. "Paolo and Warner were here with apparently more than their obvious bodyguards. I spotted a laser site on your head, Tony. McGee's, too. I saw it appear in between the stroking club lighting. "

Tony groaned and rolled his eyes.

"Strobing not stroking," he corrected tersely.

"What he means is _thank you_ , Ziva," McGee said through clenched teeth as he backhanded Tony's arm in reprimand for correcting her word choice rather than focusing on the fact they were just seconds away from dying.

"Right, that, thanks," Tony grumbled, seeming more insulted than angry that he was targeted. "They seriously had us sited in?"

"Yes," she said stripping off her one remaining high heel. "Apparently, one of Fornell's agents saw it as well. I triggered the backup signal and the agents stepped in. While they dealt with the gentlemen at the table and you decided to hug McGee on the floor…"

"It's called covering your partner," Tony said but was ignored.

"…I dealt with the two men near the bar," Ziva continued.

"Two?" McGee asked.

As she nodded, she pointed to two men on the floor receiving medical treatment from Fornell's extended team. McGee blinked then nodded in surprise. She had apparently not killed them, which was impressive considering it was close quarters and it was highly unlikely her shots did not hit precisely where she aimed.

"Still alive?" Fornell asked, thinking along the same lines.

"One in the shoulder for the one aiming at Tony," she explained as she handed over a small Walther pistol that had somehow been hidden in her skimpy dress. "The other may have a mild skull fracture. I used my shoe and the edge of the bar."

She spoke with such calm and distance from the situation that McGee was reminded again of why she both intrigued him, made him feel amazingly safe and terrified him all that the same time. He nodded as he heard the report, finding it hard to be afraid of a near death experience he never knew occurred until it was over. What he did recall was seeing a change in the expression on Paolo's face as he and Warner reached into their jackets toward their holsters. Ziva had moved swiftly away from McGee before he could reach for his own piece, but he found himself on the floor under Tony as bullets ripped through the air above them.

"That's good work, David," Fornell complimented her. "I thought only Hollywood used a high heel as a weapon."

"A well-made shoe has many uses," she said plainly handing him her remaining shoe as well. "Is it still your plan all to make it seem as though you arrested Tom Miller and his associate along with Paolo this time?"

Tony scoffed and saw the answer that Fornell was not willing to give. It made sense they would want to protect their nice sweet asset on this one. Obviously, Tom Miller would be getting a facial make over in the future and his legend would continue to be of use to the agency. He might even be loaded to the CIA or Interpol if they could drive the cover deep enough. It seemed pretty obvious that Paolo and Warner would be buried in a deep hole of solitary until every bit of information they had was wrung out of them; they were not going to be able to tell anyone their suspicions of Miller, if they still had any. Just before the FBI raided the party, they were preparing to shake a deal that would have reopened their drug trade routes curtesy of Tom Miller's connections with both cargo and cruise ship lines.

"Just write up your ROI's and get them to me," the FBI agent said with a nod at Gibbs that indicate they would discuss the whole thing later.

"Right," Tony nodded as he spoke loudly and aggressively at the departing back of the conquering agent. "Good wrap up. Nice thank you. You really know how to make a guy feel appreciated."

"A job well-done and a source like Mr. Paolo in custody should be thanks enough," Ziva said tartly, although her eyes still sparkled from the excitement. "You are very quiet, McGee. Are you alright?"

Tony barked a laugh and clapped his partner on the shoulder roughly.

"Alright?" he repeated as he crowed. "McAdLib here is the man of the hour. I have to say, Tim, I'm not sure what impressed me more: What I'll call the McBreastExam tech skills used on Ziva's delicate garments, or your irate improv over a few lost buttons. Boss, for the record, best line of the night of the night has to be this: ' _Verifying information I can respect. Ruining a perfectly good shirt in the process, I do not.'_ It's arrogant, shallow, and beautiful; a new classic, I think. My polite, little probie is all grown up. You did me proud, grasshopper."

McGee shirked out of Tony's grasp and grit his teeth despite the slight shy smile that played briefly across his lips.

"Great," McGee gritted his teeth. "Promise me something: You will never mention anything about tonight again."

Tony grinned widely as a predatory glint sparkled in his eyes.

"Oh, is there something that might make you blush or perhaps something you wouldn't want Abby to know about?" Tony leered. "What could it be? Tonsil probing Ziva with your tongue."

"There was no tongue," McGee argued.

"There was," Ziva disagreed casually with a shrug. "It was unintentional of course. Oh, sorry. He meant you, McGee. No, Tony, there was no tongue from McGee."

Tony looked momentarily stunned but shook his head as though resetting his thoughts.

"Okay, well, he did feel you up," he continued. "I can help you with that explanation, McTouchyFeelly. Just tell Abby that you missed the World Series this year and got confused when we were talking about the game so when someone mentioned hitting a double and getting to second base you…"

His head snapped forward as Gibbs' palm impacted with gusto.

"Then again, this is an undercover op," Tony said swiftly changing his tune. "Classified. Mums the word. That should cover it."

McGee finally felt himself blush over the incident. He found it difficult to look Ziva directly in the eye. It would be a lie to say in the past he never fantasized what it would be like to kiss Ziva. She was exotic and appealing. However, their encounter that evening had let him know any previous wonderings he had about kissing her had been woefully innocent. Granted, they were acting and playing roles, but Tony had not been wrong when he indicated she was rough. When she latched onto him, McGee was abruptly reminded how strong and borderline brutal the former assassin could be.

"Still, I'm sorry I had to do that," McGee apologized. "Oh, and I forgive you."

"Forgive me?" Ziva lifted her eyebrow. "For what?"

Tony laughed and threw his arm over McGee's shoulders protectively.

"For practically cold-cocking him without any notice," he said.

As he spoke, Gibbs pulled the transmitting button off McGee's jacket and tossed it to Tony. He then gripped McGee's arm and tugged him toward the door.

"Tony and Ziva, get all of your gear to the van," he said. "Bishop is with the FBI techs. They'll transfer whatever you recorded. McGee, you're with me."

Tony sighed then jerked his head toward Ziva. She smiled at him then sauntered in front, swaying her hips seductively as she walked toward exit. Tony grumbled something about snakes in the Garden of Eden and hung his head as he trudged forward. Gibbs led McGee out the side door and toward his car across the street from the surveillance van.

The junior agent wore a puzzled expression as Gibbs ushered him into the front seat then climbed into the driver's spot and took off into the evening's traffic.

"Um, Boss, if this is about fixing Ziva's transmitter, I really had no choice other than fixing it that way," McGee said, still embarrassed at the fixing job he needed to do in such a public way. "She made me do that out in the open. I didn't have a better option."

Gibbs nodded as he agent continued to ramble and apologize admitting his embarrassment and shame while simultaneously mildly bragging about the technical skill and dexterity it took to accomplish the task. Gibbs fought a smirk at the opposite claims.

"You did your job," Gibbs said as they sped off into the night. "I'll say this. You've come a long way. Hard to believe that just a few years ago I had to tell you how to get a hooker to leave a bar with you."

McGee squinted then recalled that brief undercover stint, when he got to portray his literary alter ego to get into a club. He blushed with slight embarrassment at the memory; however, that still did not explain what was going on at that moment.

"Boss, if you're not going to yell at me for tonight, then why am I going with you?" McGee asked warily. "You obviously pulled me out of the debrief portion of the operation for a reason. Where are we going? Am I in trouble for something else?"

"That all depends on how mad Abby is," Gibbs replied calmly.

McGee blinked and offered him a puzzled look.

"Why is Abby mad?" he asked. "I told her roughly what was going on tonight. I didn't know I would be feeling up… I mean, touching Ziva like that. How could I? I don't understand. She wasn't mad at me when I talked to her last, and it's not like she saw what happened… Did she?"

The blood drained from his face at the thought his wife had managed to find some way to tap into their transmissions and had watched the whole ordeal as it unfolded.

"No," Gibbs said.

His answer let McGee relax. He knew he would need to tell her at some point, if only to alleviate the guilt he felt for the evening. McGee knew there was nothing personal in the events of the evening, but that did not change the awkwardness he felt. He turned his relieved eyes to Gibbs looking for more information as they approached the edge of Arlington. The roads were wet and the tires squealed slightly as they took a corner at a high speed.

"Okay," McGee nodded. "If she doesn't know about tonight, and she wasn't mad when I talked to her last, what changed? Why is she mad now?"

Gibbs accelerated through a yellow light while the windshield wipers worked overtime to keep the view clear.

"Well, she wasn't in labor and waiting two hours for you to get to the hospital the last time you talked to her," Gibbs said as they took a corner on two wheels. "As I recall, child birth tends to sour a woman's mood."

"Child birth?" McGee gaped. "She's in labor? Right now? Is she okay? Where is she? Can you drive faster?"

Gibbs eyed him with sympathy as he put his foot down and increased their speed as they crossed skirted several congested streets and sped toward the hospital.

"She's already at the hospital, Tim," Gibbs assured him. "Your mother and grandmother are with her. Don't worry. You haven't missed anything yet. I'll get you there in time."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

 ** _Saturday morning_**

Tony stretched and listened to the crack and pops in his neck and shoulders. He groaned as he did and wondered when precisely that formerly satisfying crunch that used to be an essential part of his limbering routine before a basketball game in college became a dreaded but necessary morning exercise so that he could move. Sleeping at his desk was never good for his neck and back. Thankfully, he did that less in recent years, but the previous night it could not be avoided.

McGee had disappeared with Gibbs for unknown reasons and to unknown locations. Tony worried briefly but figured if anything had happened to Abby that Gibbs would have let him know… or somehow Bishop would have known and she would loop him in. He settled his mind on the idea that Gibbs just hustled McGee home to avoid a stressed out momma-to-be blowing up his phone for details. The other alternative worried Tony. They had been in a precarious situation, one that nearly turned deadly. While McGee had seemed fine and was showing no signs of his post-traumatic stress issues when he left the club. Tony kept his mind focused on Abby's well-being as the cause of the hasty departure as that was and easier fix than a partner who was broken yet again.

He looked toward McGee's desk and sighed. Gibbs was back so it seemed. That was good, but Tony had been enjoying being the boss again. He liked having McGee as his senior field agent. They knew each other's moves so well. Their styles did conflict at times, but they also complimented each other. When the competition to impress Gibbs was taken out of the equation, they were amazingly successful. Tony also noted that not having Ziva around also kept the dynamic duo in synch. She added a certain tension to Tony's leadership. Granted, it was a tension he (reluctantly) admitted he enjoyed, but it didn't always bring out the best in him as far as the rest of his team was concerned. With Bishop, things were smoother. She and McGee had an interesting and natural rhythm the way their minds worked. Tony felt he still had a lot he could teach them both, but with Gibbs back in the picture….

"Am I paying you to stare at McGee's desk?" Vance's voice startled Tony.

He jolted in his seat and turned around to see the Director leaning over the half wall behind him.

"Director?" Tony blinked. "Since when do you work at the crack of dawn on a Saturday?"

"More often than you realize," he said. "Good work last night. Sec Navy sends his congratulations."

"All in an evening's work," Tony grinned. "Looks like we got it all, the whole ring. Just took 18 months, hundreds of hours and a few really nice suits… and a multi-agency taskforce armed with a lot of surveillance devices and warrants."

Vance grunted his agreement but smiled. Then his expression changed.

"Officially on Monday, you're the team leader," he said but cocked his head to the side when he saw confusion on the agent's face. "Gibbs didn't tell you last night? He turned in his papers. He's retired effective today."

"Retired?" Tony gaped. "He never said…. Not that it surprises me, but it… well, it surprises me. Is this for real? He's retired before, but it didn't take."

"He only had Mike Franks to go home to the last time," Vance reminded him. "I talked to him. He's turned in his credentials, shield, and service weapon. He doesn't want any fanfare."

Tony snorted. That figured, he thought. Possibly the greatest agent in NCIS history, someone who was the epitome of what an agent should be and the icon all agents strived to be, someone beloved by most every agent to ever work with or hear of the man, and he opted to sail into the sunset without even letting a single one of them say thank you and shake his hand.

"Is he leaving the area?" Tony asked, feeling hurt he was not informed of any of this by the man himself.

"I heard Shannon talking about renovation ideas for the house," Vance informed him. "Sounds like Gibbs has a full time construction job, so I don't think he's going any further than the hardware store and the lumber yard."

He nodded then walked away. Tony tipped back in his chair and sighed with a sense of loss and disappointment, but then a satisfied grin began tugging on the corners of his mouth as he settled is eyes on desk across the room.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _NICU—Arlington Hospital_**

Gibbs exited the elevator to the hushed floor and made his way toward the man standing at the viewing window into the area where infants in need of more than just a mother's attention were kept. McGee leaned on the window with his attention focused there only. He was unaware anyone was approaching until a cup of coffee was waved under his nose. He jerked as he noticed it.

"Boss?" McGee yawned as he gratefully accepted the cup. "What are you doing here?"

Gibbs offered him a questioning look that said he believed the coffee in his agent's hand was obviously long overdue. McGee hung his head then nodded.

"Right," said. "You're… checking up on us."

McGee smiled and nodded. He was certain every new father looked at his child (and in this case children) and thought no other child was as beautiful. Unlike the rest of the babies in the room behind, McGee believed he could quantify that feeling and prove its absolute truth scientifically. His children were three weeks early, but they needed less intervention than the other tiny souls in the room receiving additional attention. Despite being technically premature, the McGee twins were breathing well and all their vitals were good and strong. Their time in the NICU was precautionary only.

The doctor was hoping to stave off jaundice so they were in the NICU nursery for a few hours rather than with Abby. On the other side of the glass, they were receiving phototherapy via bili-lights from fiber optic lights woven into their blankets. Even knowing that their time in the NICU would be brief, it had been difficult for Abby to let her babies out of her sight. To give her some sense of control and observation of them (as well as a chance to sleep), McGee hacked into the hospitals security cameras—specifically those in the nursery. He linked the feed to Abby's phone so she could still keep an eye on them even though they were down the hall. McGee explained this to Gibbs and received a simple nod of acknowledgement. Gibbs did not doubt Abby was eager to keep a close watch on the infants, but the idea to use the hospital's own security for some surveillance was undoubtedly McGee's. Whether it was legal was not a question that bothered Gibbs. He understood full well the desire to keep a close eye on family.

"I also wanted to say congratulations," Gibbs held out his hand then after shaking McGee's, he looked into the room just beyond where a number of infants were snoozing. "Let me guess. Second and third from the left?"

"Yeah, he's the first one," McGee smile. "My mother thinks he looks like Sarah did when she was born. She's probably right. He did look cranky in his first photo; I'm hoping he grows out of that quickly—one person with Sarah's personality in the family is enough. His sister is on his left. She looks like Abby, doesn't she?"

"She does," Gibbs agreed as he looked wistfully at the infant. "How is Abby?"

"Finally sleeping," McGee reported with a tired smile. "She was exhausted but wouldn't stop staring at them. They're her favorite science experiment."

Gibbs nodded. He remembered, with a pang of pain and regret, the feeling of seeing his child for the first time. He had not been able to stop staring at Kelly. He swallowed hard and pushed that memory deep back in his mind.

"About his name," McGee began hesitantly the part of their conversation the night before he did not get a chance to finish. "As I meant to explain last night, Abby and I were going to mention it to you, but then you were gone for a while and…"

"I don't need an explanation," Gibbs nodded proudly. "It suits my godson. Hers suits her, too. Kate would be honored."

"It was funny," McGee said. "When Abby and I started thinking of names, we both had Caitlyn as our first choice for her even before talked. His name, however, was took a lot of discussion. We only settled on it a month ago. I don't know if you paid attention over the summer, but Tony was lobbying pretty hard for his name. See, I made a careless, completely not serious promise to him back when we were in Afghanistan. I didn't mean it when I said it, but…"

"Yeah, but," Gibbs nodded. "The entire agency and most of the Metro area heard from DiNozzo that your son would be named after him."

McGee groaned and shook his head.

"I know," he grimaced. "I'll break the news to him later today. I've got to go to the Navy Yard to get my car and return the FBI's expensive suit. He'll probably be there finishing up paperwork from last night. I'll get my report in as well. My mom and Penny will be here soon to stay with Abby. I'll be on leave starting Monday. I'll get the report done before I go."

Gibbs waved off his concern. His leave was a matter for Tony now, but there was no reason to bring up that just yet. This was not a time to discuss work. The job was the job and family was family. At times, the two did cross, but in the end one was more important than the other. Gibbs also knew the report could be done from McGee's home if needed—something he knew the agent knew as well. Besides, the important part of the operation was done. It was a clean arrest and Paolo was in the FBI's clutches, with the CIA waiting in the wings for a stab at whatever was left once Fornell's team was done. The cleanup from busting the entire operation would take time as all the pieces of the organization were mapped and documented. All the personnel involved were identified and all the vulnerabilities that allowed the drug ring to function for so many years were shored up and the holes in security plugged. Congress, it seemed, was going to have an early Christmas with all the hearings it was clamoring to hold.

"Just take your time and spend it with your family," Gibbs said. "Don't waste a moment of it or take any of it for granted."

McGee looked thoughtfully through the window at his children, their tiny pink faces sleeping without any clue there was such a thing as worry or rotten days in the world.

"Some part of me doesn't believe this is real," he remarked. "I've known since February that this would happen, but still…."

Gibbs sighed and clapped him understandingly on the shoulder.

"Yeah," he nodded. "I remember that feeling."

The words hit McGee in the solar plexus. He hung his head and turned shame-filled, apologetic eyes on Gibbs.

"I'm sorry, Boss," he said. "I mean, I didn't to bring up anything that's…. That is, I wasn't thinking when I…"

"I remember the first time I held Kelly," Gibbs said with more wonder than sorrow in his voice. "It blew my mind. Shannon laughed at me. She had to remind me to breathe. I had a hard time putting her down and letting anyone other than Shannon get near her."

McGee nodded, feeling a lump in his throat. He experienced the same thing.

"I feel like I should keep checking on them since they're not in the room with Abby," he said. "It feels wrong for them to be out of my sight. It's like you said, it's my job."

"It is, but don't let that get in the way of enjoying your family," Gibbs advised. "You can learn from your father's mistake, Tim. I know things were complicated between the two of you, but there's no point in being mad at him; even being an example of what not to do is helpful sometimes."

McGee nodded. Penny had said practically the same thing to him just after he gave her and his mother the news that their grandchildren had arrived and were healthy if tired. The grandmothers did not remain long at the hospital afterward. Both women wanted to get home for some rest so they could be the first visitors the next day. Carter was fortunately still there and played grateful chauffeur. He congratulated McGee then vowed revenge for sticking him with crazy women and an unscheduled birth; there were veiled threats of retribution involving teaching the children interesting and loud noise making things to do with common kitchen items on Sunday mornings when their parents were still sleeping.

"I know," McGee nodded dragging himself back to the conversation at hand. "No parent is ever perfect. Abby and I are just going to take things one day at a time for now, but ever since they were born, I keep thinking that there's just 18 years before they go to college. It sounds like a long time, but really it's only about 6500 days—two thirds of those days will be spent primarily at school. You then factor in that the average person spends about one third of the average day sleeping and that's really not a lot of hours to spend with them. And it could be less. What if they go to college early like I did?"

His head snapped forward as Gibbs smacked it lightly and shook his head slowly.

"I'm thinking too far ahead, aren't I?" McGee remarked.

"I think you can hold off on the college worries and applications for a couple years," he noted. "MIT will understand if they don't apply until age five."

McGee's eyes flared. At first, Gibbs thought it was due to the eternal squabble between McGee and Abby. In truth, she was extremely impressed and proud of McGee's education, but what she appreciated more was what he could do with his knowledge. What annoyed her was when he tossed around those three letters, MIT, as if they were the solution to a problem rather than his knowledge.

"You don't want them to go to one of your alma maters?" Gibbs asked.

"I would be proud if either of them did," McGee said sadly. "It's just that, this morning, Boston suddenly seems just too far away."

Gibbs sighed then nodded his understanding as he pet the back of his agent's head briefly.

"You're doing fine at fatherhood already," he remarked.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Squad Room_**

McGee stepped into the soaring orange room now dressed in his own clothing. The borrowed Armani was back in the possession of the FBI, or whoever picked up the garment bag after he dropped it off once he changed back into his wardrobe in the locker room. His plan for the morning was simple: File a report then go back to the hospital. Granted, there was nothing for him to do there but watch Abby or watch Abby with their children, but that seemed like an awfully important duty despite not being very taxing on his skills.

As he walked toward his desk, he was accosted by Tony, who was returning from the photocopier. He swatted McGee swiftly on the arm with the stack of papers he carried.

"You with the secrets again," Tony charged. "I found out from Ellie just a few minutes ago that the McNuggets arrived. When were you going to tell me? When they graduate from high school? Which, for yours and Abby's kids, will probably be when they're six—they'll be smart but too short and too young to go to the prom. It's sad really."

McGee smirked but did not bother to take offense. Tony's grumbling was actually touching. He seemed genuinely interested and eager for the news. McGee decided there was no point in letting him linger longer in anticipation.

"We only told my immediate family last night," McGee said. "My mom and Penny were at the hospital with Abby until I got there so they stayed to meet everyone. My mom called Sarah. Abby must be awake now and sending messages. She was going to call Kyle and Luca this morning. After that, she was going to text the announcement."

Tony rolled his eyes and waved his hands in a hurry up motion.

"Blah, blah, blah, you're stalling," he said. "Photos, McStoryTeller. I need to see what you've unleashed on the world. Quit dragging this out."

McGee grinned then he went to his computer and plugged his phone into the USB port. A few clicks and he accessed the photo directory.

"The reason Ellie told you is because Abby just sent all of our friends the text message like five minutes ago," McGee said. "If you bothered to read it, you would see that our children were born at 11:38 and 11:47 last night."

"Abby had her babies on Halloween," Tony remarked and nodded appreciatively. "I really should have seen that coming. What did you name them? Skull and Crossbones? Those names will definitely make them stand out in the crowd; they'll be the toughest little Goth nerds on the planet. Probably the only ones, too; it's a good thing there are two of them so they don't get lonely."

McGee let the rambling fade as he waited for a sign Tony was coming out of his monologuing and was ready for a two-person conversation again. As he looked toward McGee with an impatient expression, McGee nodded and grabbed the remote. He clicked it once and brought up the first picture.

"Tony, this is your goddaughter, Caitlyn Penelope, but we're calling her Katie," McGee said proudly as the image of the little girl blazed on the screen.

She was small and rather pink with tiny fists that were curled lightly under her chin.

"Well, look at her," Tony grinned. "Katie, huh? It suits her. She's cute. Have you deluded yourself into thinking she's yours? She can't be. No grumpy pout. No egg-shaped head. No pasty, wan complexion. I'm thinking Abby cooked her up in a lab—probably gene spliced you in your sleep to get just the basics of what she needed and… Wait. Did you just say my goddaughter? You're entrusting me with your daughter?"

"Not to keep but yes, Tony, Abby and I want you to be Katie's godfather—on one condition," he replied. "No Brando impersonations, not for a few weeks anyway, okay?"

Tony looked hurt, or perhaps was simply holding in a remark about being made an offer he couldn't refuse. Whatever the case, he nodded then beamed proudly.

"I'm honored, Tim," he said simply.

"Abby and I thought long and hard about this, and you're the best choice," McGee continued. "You understand what your role is, right?"

Tony opened his mouth to quip but turned his eyes again to the picture of the tiny girl then sighed and nodded solemnly.

"Teach her the proper way to do a free throw and how to avoid dating guys like… well, me," he said confidently.

"Good answer," McGee replied.

"Who is the godmother?" Tony asked. "Sarah? Ooo, Holly? That would be most appreciated by yours truly."

"No, it's Ziva," McGee said as he clapped Tony on the shoulder. "You're splitting godparent duties with her. She also will teach Katie to avoid guys like you. Just keep an eye on her, Ziva I mean. I'm all for Katie knowing how to defend herself, but I'd rather not find out she has a knife fetish that puts her on the government's radar before she enters Kindergarten."

Tony nodded agreeably. He then smirked as he looked toward Gibbs' former desk then back at McGee knowingly.

"You went with Gibbs for your son's godfather, didn't you?" he guessed.

"Yes," he admitted. "Gibbs and Ellie are Jack's godparents."

"Jack?" Tony questioned.

As he spoke, McGee brought his son's picture on the plasma screen. The little boy was not strikingly similar to his sister other than his fair coloring, but given that neither had seen natural sunlight yet it was hard to say what their skin tone would be one day. His nose was slightly different as was the contour of his lips. His chin was pointier and where his sister fine hair was darker in nature, his appeared to be blond.

"Jack?" Tony repeated as he looked carefully at the image, then he nodded accepting the news without surprise. "Jack McGee? Sounds very… dependable. Nice."

"Well, Jack is a nickname," McGee said. "His legal, full name is Jackson."

Jackson, Tony nodded. After Gibbs' father. No doubt that had made their boss proud.

"Jackson Anthony McGee," McGee added.

"Anthony?" Tony repeated and blinked rapidly. His mouth hung open slightly. "You chose Anthony as his middle name? For real?"

McGee nodded, wishing he had waited to tell that to Tony when Abby could see his reaction. He was stunned, touched, and humbled—three emotions Tony rarely displayed and never all at the same time.

"Well, Abby and I thought about it for a long time, and we agreed that we're still both pretty sure we'll be meeting Anthony DiNozzo the Third, aka Junior-Junior, someday," McGee offered. "We figured we'd save the first name for you to use it properly. Abby wants you to come meet them today when you finish up with your write ups for Fornell, if you've got the time."

Rather than make a sly remarked or continue standing there like a gaping statute, Tony muckled onto his partner and gave him a gruff hug. McGee did not know if it was for congratulations over the healthy birth of the children or thanks for being made a godparent or for getting second billing on a name. Whatever the reason or combination of reasons, the reaction was genuine and robust.

"I'll name a fish after you—both you and Abby," he promised as he released McGee. "McSuito is a great name for a fish. Kate and Ziva need a new roommate. I'm thinking it could be entertaining. Fishbowl girls gone wild."

McGee groaned then shook his head.

"You really need to start dating again," he remarked quietly.

"Not precisely a lot of time on my hands," Tony replied. "You talked to Gibbs? He tell you he retired?"

McGee shook his head, startled by the news but not all that surprised by it. While he felt a little hurt that Gibbs had not bothered to say anything to him in person, he did remind himself that Gibbs whole message for him that morning was about making time for the personal things and not letting the job get in the way.

"So what now?" McGee asked. "Vance is leaving you in charge, right?"

There was a worry in his voice that both humored and touched Tony. The worry was quintessentially McGee; his head was obviously focused on the immediate issue of needing to take time off for paternity leave and not wanting to deal with a new boss who might not be understanding. He was also reacting to the loss of their leader and mentor and grappling for some semblance of normalcy, a command structure he knew and could trust to fill the void.

"No, he's going to take over the team himself," Tony said. "He said he missed the field work and beating the pavement. He's also a little concerned about how loose we play it down here with our computer searches apparently. I didn't fully understand it. Obviously, that's just a temporary fix, and he'll get us a permanent replacement. I'm betting he gives it to Ducky."

McGee blinked and gaped then his face scowled as he realized Tony was jerking him around for sport. McGee was tired from not having slept at all the previous night and from running on adrenaline since they started their undercover operation. He got a second jolt when he arrived at the hospital for the birth of his children. That thought removed the scowl from his face. He eventually smirked then shook his head.

"Ducky would be the best choice," McGee quipped as the darkened the plasma screen and uncoupled his phone. "It's always a good idea to put the smartest one in charge."

Tony narrowed his eyes and frowned briefly but accepted the jab with good grace.

"Just for that, I'm not letting you have a probie if they give us a fourth member for the team," Tony said. "I'm giving the newbie to Ellie. How is Abby?"

McGee ignored the nonsensical threat. There was no need for a fourth member on the team. If they were given one, there was no guarantee it would be a fresh agent. For now, he was just glad the team shake up would not be too drastic.

"She's good, but tired and not willing to admit it," McGee replied. "She was finally sleeping so I stepped out to get my leave request in the system. She wants you to stop by later if you feel like it. She wants to do the formal introductions. She's been explaining to both of them who everyone is."

"She gets that they don't understand language yet, right?" Tony remarked. "Then again, these are Scuito/McGee hybrids. They might understand. Where they born holding smart phones?"

McGee shook his head. He felt a little sorry for his children already. There was an expectation that they would be brilliant. While he did not doubt they could accomplish anything they set their minds to do, he also knew there was little scientific proof to establish that intelligence was fully genetic. Learning and getting good grades were hard work and anything they did in their lives were going to be based on their own efforts not because their parents were clever.

"They're not holding up their heads yet," McGee answered. "Breathing, crying, squirming. Those are their highlights so far. If you need Katie to fix your phone for you, you'll need to wait a couple years. If you're stumped now, you could just call Ziva to see if she can help."

"Ziva?" Tony questioned. "Why would I…. Oh, I get it. You're jonesing for another liplock, huh? Feel like letting your fingers do the walking one more time? McGee, you dog."

McGee felt his face flash hotly red at the reference. His goal in mentioning Ziva's name was to make Tony call her. While most of his recent discussions with Abby had obviously centered on their children, before the previous day both had been expression concern to each other about the growing tension they sensed between their friends. Whether it was a good thing and a prelude to something more on the horizon was uncertain, but both felt that allowing Ziva and Tony to ignore the festering spot was a recipe for disaster.

"No, I was thinking…," he began.

"You were thinking I forgot," Tony cut him off. "I don't know, Tim. I may have to tell Abby all about it. After all, I only got second billing on the name."

"You agreed last night not to mention it, you were pleased with the name a few minutes ago," McGee shot back. "Besides, Abby already knows. I told her."

Tony scoffed and shook his head in disbelief until he spied the frank and unafraid look on McGee's face. He nodded in return which left Tony gaping. He stared for a moment until he saw something that looked like discomfort residing in the corner of his partner's eyes.

"What did she say?" Tony asked with intense curiosity.

"That's not important," McGee replied hurriedly.

"It is now," Tony offered eagerly as his grin deepened. "Did you really come in here because she's sleeping or did she kick you out?"

McGee offered him a flat and frank expression that was an answer in itself. Had he gotten more rest, he might have simply left Tony to wonder and torture himself with not knowing, but McGee's fatigue was great. What little of his strategic thinking abilities was still functioning told him just to throw himself on the mercy of the man and hope that the truth set him free. Granted, that had never actually worked before because Tony was, well, Tony, but McGee did not have the time or energy to try subterfuge that day.

"No, she laughed at me," he confessed as he blushed. "Then she asked what it was like to kiss Ziva and complimented me on my… uh… dexterity. "

"She complimented you?" Tony repeated. "Abby? Your wife? The woman who got jealous of Susan Grady, the polygraph girl, just for asking having a crush on you? She didn't care that you were all touchy-feely with Ziva like you were kneading pizza dough?"

McGee shrugged. How Abby's mind actually worked was something he did not think he would ever figure out—the impossibility involving in trying to solve that puzzle was half the reason he loved her. Her laughing at him was not unexpected. He had laughed at the whole thing himself a few hours later when he was finally able to process what he had done with sufficient distance from the adrenaline of the moment.

"I made her promise if she ever asks Ziva about it that she never tell me anything about the conversation," McGee said.

Tony nodded, taking the confession as a secret between them. He, himself, was curious about how Ziva felt about the encounter but was not prepared to ask. If it turned out she was more impressed with her forced intimate moment with McGee than she had been in the past when she and Tony were placed in situation that required a blurring of professional lines, he was not sure his ego could take it. So he found himself shaking his head. He caught a questioning look from McGee so he coughed and covered quickly.

"Don't take this the wrong way because I love her like a sister and all, but your wife is weird, Probie," Tony shook his head.

McGee nodded. Weird was an accurate and acceptable description of Abby, and he wouldn't have her any other way. That thought dragged him back from the evening's activities and revelations. He looked at his watch and felt a growing urge to finish his report quickly.

"I need to get this ROI filed," he said. "I want to get back to the hospital within the next hour."

"She's not going home today is she?" Tony asked.

Mangled healthcare rules being what they were, he would not be surprised if she was. After all, he got booted out of the hospital with a skull fracture and fresh surgical incision within three days of being admitted.

"No, they're keeping her until Monday," McGee reported. "We'll bring Jack and Katie home the same day as long as nothing changes for them between now and then."

"You're looking a little peaked there, McGee," Tony chided. "This whole life as a grown up thing getting too real for you? If you're thinking of running away from home, don't even try. Abby's probably GPS chipped you in your sleep. Even if she hasn't, thanks to you, she now knows a SEAL who can hunt you down without much difficulty."

The only leaving on McGee's mind involved the office so he could get back to his family, but his head was a whirl of medical paperwork and insurance information that made concentrating on his report of investigation write up difficult. That morning alone, he had seen dozens of documents and reports that morning as the doctor's gave them their glowing assessments of the children's health thus far. It was all good news, but something was gnawing at McGee and he was certain it all drew back to hospital records. What he didn't know was why and what records specifically. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that what bothered him predated the events of the previous day.

"Are we sure this is done?" McGee asked abruptly looking away from his computer.

"What is done?" Tony asked. "Me making fun of you? No, I don't see that happening, ever."

"No," McGee scoffed. "I mean the investigation. Tony, we haven't missed anything, have we?"

Tony shook his head. Only McGee would worry that after nearly 2 years of digging for clues, untangling decades-old conspiracies, side-stepping death multiple times, that somehow the whole shebang wasn't complete.

"It's not a novel, Tim," he replied. "Not all loose ends get tied up neatly. Yes, we will have missed a whole lot of low level dealers in the process. What did was more important. We cut off their supplier. Cut off the head, and the body will flounder—that's a rule or something. We got the head."

"Chop the head off a hydra and two more grow in its place," McGee responded. "But that's not what I mean. Are we sure we didn't miss something big?"

Tony shook his head and chuckled.

"What?" he questioned. "This was not an easy investigation. Maybe you remember how it started? You, on the floor in Afghanistan, bleeding. We turned over ever stone we saw. We kicked every hornet's nest we found. It was ugly at times and full of contradictions that are likely to tie it up in litigation for years, but we got, okay? There is nothing big left. You're just feeling that post bust let down."

Tony nodded firmly. He understood. McGee spent a good deal of the investigation on the sidelines either recuperating or kept in the dark for the sake of the investigation's integrity. They had to accept they would never know for certain how many children Porter molested or whether he actually killed that man in San Francisco. McGee and Carter were not reliable witnesses. One was twisted by the trauma of being the suspect's plaything. The other had his memory warped by a now-dead therapist who scrambled his already hazy recollections due to being improperly drugged. As for any other big names in the cartel's inner workings, with Johnson now on the deceased list there was little hope of learning much more.

"The Brits have Peter Colson in custody," Tony offered. "They've been questioning him for a while. Maybe he's given up more, but if he has, it's not likely it'll involve us. So, let it go, McDaddy-O. You're on leave as soon as you email that report. You've got two weeks to reboot the system and get ready to come back and deal with our normal load of felonies, the kind that don't involve millions in interagency assets. Face it, your days as Tom Miller are now over."

McGee shook his head. He would not miss the undercover work. He did not mind those duties when needed, but he felt a hesitation now. Undercover work, the in depth kind that needed back-stopped IDs, felt dangerous. There was a certain amount of danger with his job, he accepted that, but there was more than his own feelings to consider now. He had a family that needed him to come home each night.

"I saw that the job in cyber is opening up again," McGee said as he looked at Tony.

"I saw that, too," Tony replied casually not making eye contact. "You interested?"

McGee sighed. He didn't know. He had thinking to do. He had discussions to have. He wasn't sure what was the right thing to do or that he should even be wondering about any of this right now.

"I'm not _not_ thinking about it," he offered. "I just thought I'd let you know, as my new supervisor, that I know it's out there."

Tony nodded slowly. He was not surprised the topic had come up. He had just hoped McGee would be too focused on home matters to worry about job changes. Tony could take other agents onto his team, but he didn't want to do that—not yet. He needed a senior field agent he trusted, one whose actions and reactions he could understand and predict, someone with the right attitude and background (namely someone who made it through the Gibbs boot camp).

Then again, McGee wasn't exactly his McGee anymore. He was someone's father now, two someone's in fact. He had other considerations and priorities.

"Well, let me know if you make a decision," Tony said. "I'd like to keep you here in the squad room with my team, but I know cyber could use you as well."

McGee nodded and chewed is lip as he looked at the computer with disappointment. The blinking cursor gave him no answers. It also did nothing to alleviate his feeling that they were not yet at the grand finale for all the work they put into this last investigation.

"You're sure we got everything wrapped up?" he asked in frustration. "I just feel like I missed something."

Tony barked a laugh and shook his head.

"That's what this is about?" he grinned. "You're poor ego can't get over the fact that I am the one who found Shannon in all that gibberish data you sent me. I didn't need a spreadsheet or an algorithm. I didn't need super techy skills. I just looked for clues and patterns and voila, there she was hidden in plainsight."

He stopped short of chiding his partner by saying he needed to stick with the investigation side of the house longer if he wanted to develop real sleuthing skills. There was a chance that a still-smarting McGee might take that as a dismissal and put in his paperwork to transfer.

"Let it, Tim," Tony said more kindly. "I was stuck at home, bored, and in desperate need of doing something. Truth is, I got lucky. I had a clue, sort of. Kort said something to Gibbs and it was like a treasure map I had to follow."

"Right, but what it there was more?" McGee asked. "You said you thought Johnson hid more than one person. You found evidence he stashed a few drug dealers or their families using that same bait and switch method with records. What if he hid someone big? What if he wasn't the head guy? I just don't see him as being compassionate and helping people for the sake of helping them. He was a drug dealer essentially who betrayed his badge and his country."

Tony sighed and left his desk. He made his way slowly to McGee's and perched on the edge. His expression was one of understanding. Roughly 14 years earlier he met a very green, very innocent, very straight-laced probationary agent in Norfolk. The 25 year-old Boy Scout had been nervous and worried when they didn't do everything by the book. He believed in the rule of law, the righteousness of carrying a badge, and believed that the good guys always won in the end and could always be trusted. In the intervening decade, Tony had done his best to wear down those overly naïve ideas and tendencies and turn that posterchild for a probie into a capable agent and respectable partner. Despite his best and valiant efforts, which on a normal day appeared to be successful, Tony in that moment could see that every bit of that original programming remained. Rather than frustrate him, it made him smile.

"Bad guys don't always make sense, and they have their own reason for what they do," he said plainly without any taunt or scolding in his tone. "The reason they don't always make sense to us is because we're the good guys. We make sense. We follow the rules, usually, and when we break them the reason are justified and we can explain them. Johnson did what he did for his own reasons. Maybe hiding Shannon was guilt. He'd just made her leave her daughter to die all alone in a hospital far from home. Anyone else he gave a second chance to was for his own personal gain. He wasn't following anyone's orders. He wasn't hiding any elusive big bad wolf. That was who he was, the mastermind. I know you want there to be more meaning to this thing. Considering what happened to you and the things you found out, I don't blame you, but there's nothing more, Tim. This is a rule 11 moment."

McGee sighed and scowled. Everything Tony said sounded reasonable. More than that, he sounded a bit like Gibbs (if you could ever get Gibbs to string that many words together all at once). He nodded, accepting the counsel, but there was something else at the back of his mind—more advice from Gibbs: follow your gut.

Rather than disagree or argue with Tony, McGee simply nodded. He needed to finish his work and wanted get back to the hospital to see his family.

"You got it, Boss," he said.

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** _And now the epilogue..._


	58. Chapter 58

**_EPILOGUE_**

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Charleston, SC_**

 ** _December 22_**

The evening turned cold and inky as a heavy and chilly rain washed over the rented car that in which the two tired and agitated agents shivered. McGee was behind the wheel and intently watching a coffee shop several doors down. Bishop sat beside him tucking her hands into her armpits to keep them warm as the miserable storm sucked the last remnants of heat from the car.

"So you're just gonna say what when you do talk to this woman?" Bishop asked. "Hey, I don't have a warrant, but can I stick this swab in your mouth and get your DNA?"

"You say whatever you need to say," McGee replied. "Just don't spook her. She ran the last time she realized we were watching her. It's taken us 6 hours to locate her again."

"Whoa," Bishop shook her head. "Me? You want me to talk to her? No. This is your idea, and you're the senior field agent."

"Yeah, I am the senior field agent so I'm delegating the task to you," McGee argued. "Ellie, you're a woman. You'll be less threatening approaching her."

Bishop scoffed and held her tongue as she considered remarking how non-threatening she thought McGee looked, but stopped. Three days of close quarters and nearly no sleep far from home between the two of them, when both desperately wanted to be close to home, did not bring out the best in them. Bishop figured this was some sort of test set up by Tony as a team building exercise. As far as she was concerned, she and McGee did not need any partner building. They worked together in nearly perfect precision. The more she thought about it, the more she thought this was actually Tony's way of punishing them for not listening.

He had commanded McGee to drop his incessant reviewing of the data from laptop he pirated a year and a half earlier. Tony could not understand why McGee refused to let the old hospital data go. McGee was at a loss for why he wouldn't let it drop either. Tony got to the point of actually ordering McGee to the elevator the previous four days to yell at him loudly enough that the whole squad room still heard him. The upshot of that reprimand, and Tony learning Bishop had helped McGee in his continual perusal of the records, sent them to follow up on what appeared to be their only lead, and it was a thin one at that.

"Okay, I supported you when Tony was telling you to drop this," Bishop said. "I felt that was the right thing to do. On paper, or on the screen rather, I thought you were on to something. Now that we're here, it's pretty apparent to me that we've got nothing. I think you know that, too. That's why you don't want to just walk over there and talk to that woman."

"That's not it," McGee insisted as he rubbed his hands together as the cold and damp of the frigid rainstorm seeped into the car.

His chest felt tight and his asthma inhaler was down to its last few puffs. He was cold. He was tired. He wanted to be home with Abby and his children.

But he also had to see this through.

During the two weeks he had for paternity leave, he spent every waking moment he could with his children and helping Abby. However, it became apparent fairly swiftly that newborns sleep a lot and Abby did not. Certainly she got more rest than normal, but she was a hyper active person and needed to fill her non-Mommy moments with something to do. As a result, there were nearly no chores around the house needing his attention. Abby, freed from bed rest and worry that her own physical activity would harm her children, jumped back into her normal swing of things at the house as if she had not just gone through nearly 12 hours of labor. To keep out of her way, McGee did what he did best: retreated to his computer.

Despite Tony's assurance and mild order to let the matter drop, McGee was hooked on looking at the data to learn how Johnson hid people and see if he could discover why. What he learned initially was that Tony was right. Without a treasure map of clues, there was nearly no way to figure it out.

Nearly.

Tony's discovery of Shannon was something of a primer. Using that as a Rosetta Stone of sorts, McGee had cracked the obtuse code that pointed to where the hidden bodies might be. It appeared that only Shannon was given a stipend on which to live, which made sense as she seemed to be the only non-criminally affiliated person in the bunch. All the others it seemed lived off the ill-gotten proceeds of drug and criminal organizations who laundered their money in predictable ways.

Except one.

That was the one that captured McGee's attention. This individual was cut off from the rest. This one had spent time in a rehabilitation center years earlier—the kind for serious head injuries where the party learned to walk and talk again. From what he had learned and seen in the last few hours, this one was a success story of sorts. She could walk and talk, that much was evident. She worked at a homeless shelter and according to his research that morning spent her off hours teaching basic self-defense to recovering rape victims at the local Y and doing art therapy with children in foster care.

Her own record was a little spotty. She had several juvenile arrests and convictions for petty theft and fighting. Most stemmed from her penchant from running away from her long series of foster parents. Along the way, she managed to eke out a GED and get an associate degree from a community college. She spent part of her early years in California then relocated to Atlanta once she was and adult, leaving no real trace of herself in the towns she left behind. The only way she was located in Charleston was from her work with the children's art program which required all adults to be fingerprinted prior to being hired. When her ID popped in the system the day Tony took McGee to the woodshed at the office, McGee took drastic action that still might get him fired.

Worst still, it might severe his relationship with someone he respected more than his actions would indicate: Gibbs.

"Let's just throw in the towel," Bishop encouraged as McGee's phone began to ring. "You won't even tell me who you think this person is or why you're so certain she's one of Johnson's lost person's file. That tells me you're not so sure yourself. I get it. You were laser focused on that data in the encrypted files. I've been there, believe me. I think we just need to admit defeat, go back to DC, and tell Tony he was right. He'll understand. He'll harangue us for the rest of our lives for this, but he should. This was stupid."

As she spoke, McGee shook his head and held up his finger to halt the discussion to no avail. As she spoke, he put his finger in his ear and listened intently on his phone.

"Ducky?" McGee asked. "You did… And?... Really?... Oh, no, actually, I am surprised. I guess I shouldn't be, but I am… Uh, right now… Okay… Will do… Have you told… No, I understand… Thanks. I'll get right back to you."

Bishop sighed and looked at him with a perturbed expression for the interruption. Outside, their target for the day was leaving the coffee shop where she had spent the last 30 minutes sitting at a table by herself in a far corner near the windows.

"What did Ducky want?" she asked.

"To tell me I'm not totally wrong—at least about what I'm looking for," McGee said as he climbed out of the car into the rain now turning to sleet. "I just don't know if I'm totally right."

Bishop followed, huddling in her coat as she hurried after him as they approached the woman who was heading toward a bus stop.

"What does that mean?" Bishop asked. "What were you not wrong about?"

She did not receive an answer as McGee's footsteps quickened. Bishop moved her legs double time. She often forgot how tall her partner was—nearly a foot taller than she was—and that his legs covered more distance than hers without much effort. She noticed it more since taking on his title of senior field agent. Formerly content to hang back or follow Tony's lead, McGee was usually the point person when she and he were sent into the field and taking charge (and the lead) had become his default setting. While she found that easy to work with, it was still something of an adjustment.

As she pondered their recent role changes, McGee reached the corner. Underneath the streetlight, in the intensely cold and thick rain, the young woman huddled in a vest and sweatshirt that had seen better days and were swiftly getting soaked as she waited for the mass transit to arrive.

"Kathleen Roberts?" McGee called to the lithe strawberry blond.

She looked his way and stepped backward. Her bright eyes were wide and wary. Bishop put on extra speed to catch up to him. McGee reached into his jacket pocket and drew out his badge. He held it up.

"Miss Roberts, I'm a Federal Agent, I just need to talk to you," he said louder as her eyes darted around looking for a place to hide or run.

"I don't know what you want, but it's got nothing to do with me," she said loudly from the half-block distance that separated them as she continued to hurry away.

"Please, I just need a minute of your time to ask you a question," McGee called out.

"Talk to my lawyer," she scoffed over her shoulder.

"Fine, who is your lawyer?" McGee asked and stopped in his tracks.

It was that hesitation, Bishop thought later, that won the woman's trust. No mugger would have halted on the threat of lawyer and none would have asked for the lawyer's name. The woman stopped and gaped at McGee, the wheels behind her eyes turning slowly and apparently fixing on the possibility that the badge was real and his request was in earnest.

"You don't have one, do you?" Bishop asked, holding up her badge as well but smiling in a friendly way.

"You need a warrant or something like that before you can arrest me," she said. "I haven't done anything so whatever you've trumped up, I'm innocent."

"I'm not here to arrest you," McGee said. "Please, I just need a minute of your time."

She froze in place then looked over her shoulder as the sounds of the approaching bus filled the air. She appeared ready to sprint down the block to the earlier stop. She had turned on her heel to leave when McGee did the only thing left in his arsenal to stop her. He shouted.

"Kelly Gibbs!" he yelled.

She stopped in mid-flight. She move forward nor did she turn back. Bishop nudged McGee in the back, and nodded, giving her assessment that it was likely save to approach their target. Hearing the name he called rocked Bishop on her heels. She had assumed all this time that they were tracking down the daughter or wife of leading drug dealer. That they were seeking Gibbs' dead daughter simply never occurred as dead usually meant no longer living. However, the odd and clipped conversation with Ducky suddenly made sense. This was the day he had finally arranged to have the grave of Shannon Gibbs exumed and the body (if any) examined as the Inspector General's Office now ruled it safe for Shannon Gibbs to be given her old identity back following the successful incarceration of those involved in her disappearance. It seemed apparent now that Kelly's grave had been opened too and found to be lacking.

Bishop followed her partner as he approached in a steady but reasonable pace. He stepped around the woman to face her. There was a definite scar on her forehead along the hairline from a serious childhood trauma. Her heart shaped face was pale as she looked at McGee with wide, fearful, blue eyes.

"What did you say?" she asked in a small, scared voice.

"Your name," he said. "Your birth name. I think."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Gibbs' House-exterior_**

The craftsman structure had Christmas lights adorning the front and a wreath on the door for the first time in longer than any neighbor could remember. Gibbs' house was always appeared neat and tidy from the street, but there was never any decoration on it. This year, there were soft white lights, a robust wreath, and red ribbons tied along the porch and fence posts. Inside, through the large picture window, twinkling lights hinted at a tree within.

McGee put Bishop's car in park as they rolled to a halt in the driveway. Five other cars were scattered between there and the curb along the street signaling the rest of the team was inside for the holiday gathering Shannon invited them all to just after Thanksgiving. Gibbs had been absent from most of their lives unless they went to the house lately; as Vance predicted, he was on renovation duty. The last time McGee stepped inside, the man had just finished installing new kitchen cabinets. From the look of them, he had customized them himself.

"This is insane," Kelly said rooting herself in place in the car.

She tearfully looked at the house, one that danced hazily in her memory. She sat beside McGee fearful he would leave. After a day and a half spent with him and his partner, she felt so lost but as long as they were around she had a sense of calm and comfort despite the panicky feelings that kept flaring in the pit of her stomach. McGee cast his eyes on her as he turned off the engine. She had gotten rigid and looked like she might bolt at any minute. He put a calming hand on her shoulder.

"Okay, I fulfilled my part of the deal," he said. "We didn't call ahead. They don't know about you yet. Now, I'm texting my wife and telling her we are here. She and my boss are in there. They are going to tell your parents. You promised me if you wouldn't take off. I know this is pretty scary but…"

"I remember this place, I think," she said. "I mean, it feels familiar a bit. I don't actually remember it. I just feel like I should."

Bishop, sitting in the back, stuck her head between them and nodded.

"That's understandable," she said. "You had a trauma skull fracture from the accident. You didn't know your name or how to talk or walk afterward. No one blames you for not remembering where you lived or who you were. I think you'll find that your parents will just be elated by the fact that you're alive."

McGee nodded. He didn't like this set up. Gibbs hated surprises. Granted, this was a surprise he would love within seconds of learning of it, but the shock was simply unfair to him and Shannon. Previously, that sort of thought would not have occurred to the agent, but if anything ever happened to Jack or Katie and he wasn't informed instantly, it would not sit well with him. He could not imagine thinking one of them was dead for two decades only to find him or her hiding a neighbor's car on Christmas Eve.

"I understand that this is overwhelming for you, but you don't have anything to fear." McGee said. "They will welcome you back. They never got over losing you."

"I'm not the little girl they knew," Kelly shook her head.

"I know, you grew up," he said. "It happens to everyone lucky enough to get that opportunity."

"I've got a record," she said. "He's a cop."

"He was a special agent and yeah, you've got a record," McGee shrugged. "Call Metro PD, so do I. Give it a year of working with me and Tony and Ellie will have one, too."

"Hey!" Bishop grumbled from the backseat but was ignored.

"Look, you did what the circumstances seemed to call for at the time," McGee reasoned with her. "You found yourself in a few tough spots, and you made a few split second choices that turned out bad. You never hurt anyone, and you always had a good reason. You accepted your punishments. You got your life on track so don't worry about any of that stuff in the past. Besides, I know a great lawyer who can help get those expunged so they don't follow you for the rest of your life. And don't worry about Gibbs being mad about any of that. He'll understand."

"He was your Boss," Kelly shivered. "I'm not really good with authority."

"Neither is he so you have that in common," McGee smiled encouragingly. "He's a good man—one of the best I've ever known. He's saved my life and my career. I made him my son's godfather. Everything good in my life today I can trace back to him in some way. He is stern, but he's definitely someone worth knowing."

She swallowed and looked uncertain.

"I'm not sure I'm worth knowing," she shook her head.

"I've only been a father for about two months, but I can assure you that your father will want to know you," McGee said. "No matter what happens in your life, you will always be his daughter. He never stopped loving you. Losing you took a part of him that he never got back. Just being alive is all you will need to do to win him over. Trust me on this: Stalling here and panicking won't make this easier. Let's just go inside together. I'll be right there with you the whole time. Everything will be fine."

Bishop sighed and put her hand on the young woman's shoulder.

"Look, Tim's good at a lot of things, but lying isn't one of them so you'd know if he wasn't being truthful," she said. "I'm his partner so I know. He kind of sucks at the whole subterfuge thing. And if you don't want to take my word for it, you can ask his wife, but to do that you've got to go inside to meet her."

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _Gibbs' House-interior_**

Gibbs looked at his watch and then at one of his guests with a stern expression. Abby had arrived an hour earlier as planned with her children. Except it was not her husband who escorted her in. Ziva had those honors. There was a passing mention of McGee working late but arriving shortly. Shortly had now become longer than expected in Gibbs' mind. From the agitated way Tony kept looking at his watch, Gibbs was not the only one worrying.

"Where is McGee?" Gibbs asked his former agent in a low but concerned voice as Tony lurked near the door.

"He's… on his way," Tony replied. "He and Ellie should be here soon."

"He's with Ellie?" Gibbs asked. "They had to work on Christmas Eve but you didn't?"

His eyes narrowed on Tony who withstood the scrutiny better than expected. Abby looked down at her phone then waved at him and nodded with a pinched expression on her face as she held tightly to her son. Ziva caught the signal between them and took possession of her goddaughter as Ducky moved toward Gibbs.

"What's going on?" Gibbs asked impatiently.

Tony cleared his throat and seemed to lose all sense of what he was going to say for a moment as his goddaughter began to fuss in Ziva's arms. Abby retrieved the child and held her close, settling the little girl once again.

"Boss, Ma'am," Tony began as he gained Shannon's attention as well. "We didn't want to say anything until we were sure and could… arrange it. For the last few days, McGee and Ellie were following up on a lead. See, McGee took it kind of hard that he didn't figure out all the clues in the computer that led me to find you, Ma'am. The possibility that I might actually be smarter than him rattled him so much he's been going over every bit of data we had about our crooked DEA agent again and again. Now, I told him to let the matter drop, but, Boss, you know how he can be when he gets all computer code this and data pattern that. Add to that how he can be a little competitive when he's been put in his place by real cop work and…"

"And what Tony means," Abby interrupted as she looked at the latest message that had just arrived on her phone, "is that Tim found something. Then with a little help from Ellie and a few of her NSA friends using their probably very illegal and unconstitutional databases, these curious little NSA snoopers…"

Ziva scoffed lightly and shook her head as she started to grin.

"Just call them spies, Abby," she offered. "It fits here, and I do not believe Ellie would take offense. It is perhaps objectionable or questionable that her former colleagues can so easily obtain such information on private citizens, but it was also exceptionally helpful."

"Right," Abby nodded as she continued to rock her son quietly in her arms. "Okay, her spy buddies found a girl, a young woman actually, that Tim's been looking for."

Her eyes began to tear up, and her voice got swallowed as her throat tightened.

"What woman?" Shannon asked cautiously.

"It's your daughter," Tony said carefully. "We have definitive proof that Kelly didn't die in that car crash."

Shannon gasped and Gibbs' face lost all color. He eyed Tony hard shocked and perhaps a bit angered at the claim.

"No question about it," Tony assured him. "Johnson needed to make Shannon disappear so that she couldn't testify against Pedro Hernandez. To do that, Johnson had to convince her to leave Kelly behind; only he knew to do that was tell her that Kelly died. It makes sense what he did. He was supposed to kill Shannon and couldn't do that either. He did the same thing with your daughter. It seems that he knew Shannon never go if Kelly was still in need of care. Unfortunately, she was too badly hurt to be moved so he waited until a bad moment and let you believe she died, Ma'am. He then paid off doctors to falsify reports—looks like there was some blackmail and narcotics swapping for him and for the coroner, too. Mike Franks was called in after the autopsies were allegedly done. Mike never knew the initial information he was given on the victims was false."

He then looked to Ducky for help on this point. He was not sure if he should go into detail or if just a basic explanation would do. And if anyone asked questions on the specifics, Ducky was the one best suited to answer them.

"I've reviewed the hospital records from Kelly's admittance—the unaltered ones that Timothy unearthed through his computer analysis," the doctor offered. "Kelly was seriously injured, almost gravely so, but she did not die in that hospital—a point we confirmed two days ago after Timothy convinced me to exhume her grave when we finally opened the one that was allegedly Shannon's. Both coffins were empty."

Shannon gasped. Gibbs' eyes were hollow and his expression vacant as though he could not believe a word he was hearing but could not find an objection to argue against them.

"But I saw her…," Shannon shook her head as tears flowed liberally down her face and she gripped Gibb's hand tightly. "At the hospital, she was dying. They were trying to save her, but the doctor said she had… Jethro, I would never have…"

"I know," he said softly as she buried her face in his chest and sobbed. "I know you wouldn't."

"You saw something terrible, but they didn't give you the truth about what you were seeing," Ducky explained as Gibbs' bright blue eyes widened. "There was no way for you to know and there was no other course for you to take but to obey the trusted Federal officer trying to save you. What we know now is that Kelly was moved to another hospital under a false identity and remained there for two months. She was then sent to a rehabilitation center with paperwork declaring her and orphan and ward of the court. Her head injury was severe, but the doctor's did a miraculous job. After a great deal of therapy, she learned to walk and talk again as well as how to read and write once more. However, much of her memory was compromised by both the injury and what she was told afterward."

Tony nodded his thanks and felt it was his turn to pick up the tale again.

"She's spent her life thinking she was an orphan whose parents were killed in a car crash," he said. "She's okay now. All that's really left from the accident are some scattered memories and a scar on her forehead. Basically, she's normal. Like Ducky said, she doesn't remember most of her life before the accident, or maybe she just didn't trust what memories she did still have. She grew up in foster care. It wasn't an easy life. She has a few juvenile arrests—nothing serious, just a kid acting our or trying to run away, which was a good thing. I mean, if not for those records, McGee might never have found her."

Gibbs swallowed tightly as he held his wife's trembling form. His voice was tense and thin in spots when he spoke.

"This girl… woman… you're certain it's Kelly?" he asked.

Tony nodded and gestured to Abby.

"Full on, DNA match for you and Shannon," Abby offered. "I went into my lab and did the tests myself using your DNA records and yours too, Ma'am. Sorry, I stole your DNA without ask, Shannon. I used the straw you had in your yogurt smoothie you had when you came to breakfast at my house a couple days ago. I made sure to run the test twice. This woman is your daughter."

Gibbs gasped as his face went from shockingly pale to a warm reddish tone. Shannon blinked furiously as she trembled.

"I know you don't like apologies, but I owe you a big one," Tony said contritely. "I tried to back McGee off this twice. Then I didn't let him call when he was certain. He was sure days ago and wanted to call you, but I made him wait until we had the DNA results confirmed. That is probably the only time I'll ever tell McGee to wait for the computer to confirm the answer rather than follow his gut."

He smirked at the irony of it but found he was the only one doing so. Tony cleared his throat as the pregnant pause in the room grew heavy until Gibbs spoke.

"McGee found her?" Gibbs asked in a voice that was on the edge of disbelief. "Where is she?"

Abby smiled and looked at her phone.

"That was Tim who just texted me," she sniffled. "Kelly is with him and Ellie. They actually parked outside right now. Um, before you rush out there, you should know that Kelly grew up thinking her name was Kathy—but she hates that name so she goes by her initial 'K'; although, now that she know her name is actually Kelly she is starting to like that again. Anyway, she's wigged out by all this and by the prospect of meeting you both… again. She wants to see you, but she's also afraid you'll be disappointed in her. Tim thinks it would be helpful if you both went outside to meet her because he can't get her to come inside."

The words were barely over Abby's lips when Shannon rushed to the door. Her heart was pounding and her eyes were streaming. Gibbs's face was stone as he hurried after her. Outside, in the driveway, a young woman stood beside McGee with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her strawberry blond hair was tied in a tight ponytail behind her head and she seemed to huddle close to McGee for safety as Bishop stood near them.

Shannon rushed forward and threw her arms around Kelly, who froze and grew rigid in her grasp. She leaned backward instinctively, but McGee squeezed her hand briefly before stepping away a bit. She shuddered at his departure but found a sense of safety as she heard his quiet calm voice.

"It's what Moms do—hug and embarrass you," he said confidently.

Kelly cut he eyes quickly at him to see him nod in a reassuring manner then point to the house to indicate he would be stepping inside. Her apprehension at being embraced lessened as the knot in her stomach began to unravel and turn into something more like a flock of butterflies. It was a scent she recognized. She did not know what it was, only that she knew it and it made her feel calm. She lifted her eyes toward the house once more as she saw Bishop heading toward the stairs as well to step out of the still night air. In her brief glance over Shannon's shoulder, she saw a dark haired woman holding an infant in the doorway. McGee was by her side and taking the child while beaming and receive a robust kiss from the woman. Further view of the house was obscured a blink later as a man stood just behind Shannon.

"Kelly?" Gibbs voice cracked.

He looked at the face that was not precisely familiar but one he knew all the same. The features were mature now, but the little girl he lost stared back at him from watery and wary eyes—eyes he knew so well and missed so much it nearly sucked the breath from his lungs; eyes he still saw in his dreams; eyes he believed he would never see in person ever again. She stared back then reached her hand forward as tears flooded her blue eyes.

"I know your eyes," she wept as she cupped his face in her trembling hands. "I've seen them in my dreams my whole life. Whenever I felt like giving up, I would dream of someone with eyes like yours telling me everything would be okay."

"It's all okay now, baby," Gibbs said as she shifted to the side so she could be enveloped by both parents.

Inside the house, the guests watched from afar with silence and tears. Bishop and McGee offered their brief review of how the last few days had gone. Beyond that, there was no talking. By mutual but silent agreement, they each grabbed their coats. Abby tossed out an offer for everyone to reconvene one block over at the McGee house. The series of nods passed the measure as a good plan and people began to depart. The guests quietly passed by the emotional reunion not bothering to say a word. Abby and bundled the twins for their brief drive home, but Ducky returned and lifted the daughter from McGee's possession then whispered to him.

"Jethro wants to talk to you and Anthony," he said. "I will situate darling Katie in her car seat for you."

McGee nodded as the doctor departed with Abby and the children. McGee then stepped out into the night and stood off to the side as Shannon and Kelly made their way up the steps. Kelly nodded tearfully at him and mouthed the words "thank you." McGee simply nodded in reply, certain they would talk again relatively soon.

Tony stood beside him with a cagey posture. His hands were jammed into his pockets. His collar was turned up against the cold. He rocked nervously on his heels and seemed to be trying to make smoke rings with his breath on the frozen air.

"You gonna say I told you so?" he asked.

"No, why?" McGee asked.

"Just checking," Tony grinned making a mental note to pick up his $20 win from Palmer.

The assistant medical examiner had warned Tony not to read McGee the riot act or call him into the elevator to shout at him for continuing to pursue a lead only he could see. The autopsy gremlin then, once Kelly's coffin revealed no body, said McGee owed his boss a large and righteous 'I told you so.' Tony continued to smile as he thought Palmer might be wise about more than people gave him credit for being, but he didn't know McGee—not like Tony partner did.

As the two men stood outside and shivered, Gibbs approached with an expression so devoid of readable emotion both men facing him stood at attention. Their former boss's mouth hung open in shock and awe as if his limited speech repertoire had completely failed him.

"You…," he began with a tight throat.

"He didn't listen," Tony said in scolding tone then pet McGee's head gently. "Good job and never do that again."

Rather than comment, Gibbs looked at both men with pride radiating from his dazzling eyes. Marines gave up their sense of self and surrendered to the group and the higher purpose of being a team, a collective identity by which all would success or all would fail. They never considered themselves heroes. They would run headlong into danger on the simply trust and unshakeable faith that their brothers would do it for them. Gibbs felt he lost some of that when he left the Corps, but looking at the two agents he groomed he knew it never really left him; it just changed uniforms.

"You'd have done it, Boss," McGee said. "I just… I made up Rule 70 because of what you and Tony taught me so I just asked myself what would Gibbs and Tony do? I knew that answer so… I did it."

Gibbs looked at both men then reached his hands out as if to pat their backs but at the last moment pulled them brusquely into a hug before stepping back and nodding curtly.

"Get going, Tim," Gibbs said as he nodded toward the car parked at the curb. "Abby has been taking care of your children solo long enough."

McGee nodded and mumbled something to Tony about seeing him in a few minutes. Tony remained in his place as Gibbs fixed him with a pointed stare.

"You have a hell of a team," he said. "You know what not to do?"

Tony nodded assuredly.

"Don't screw it up," he replied as Ziva stepped out of the shadows. She nodded a silent goodnight to Gibbs then wandered with Tony toward his car as Gibbs returned to his home.

"Abby says we all pummel you and McGee with questions at their house," Ziva remarked as she fell in step beside him.

"I think you got that word wrong," Tony smirked. "And even if you didn't, there's not actual hitting. It's like rapid fire questions doesn't involve guns or ammunition. There is so much I should have taught you."

Ziva ceased walking and offered him a contemplative look. Tony stopped in his tracks as well and returned a questioning expression.

"Perhaps there is," she remarked.

Tony merely nodded. He was not sure what to make of the softened look in her eyes any more than the open ended statement she offered.

"There's some deep and heady lesson in all this," Tony remarked as he gazed at her in the moonlit darkness. "But I'll be damned if I can figure out what it is or put it into words."

Ziva looked at him thoughtfully in the descending twilight as snow began to fall from the sky and swirl around them in a dancing pattern. She gripped his hand and laced her fingers through his as she held his hand warmly in hers.

"Perhaps it is that, for the best of us, with time, they can heal, yes?" she offered with a hypnotic and inviting gaze that zeroed in on his eyes.

Tony responded to the pressure in his hand and looked at her with a hopeful but uncertain expression.

"What can?" he asked.

"Broken hearts," she said.

 ** _THE END_**

 ** _oOoOoOo_**

 ** _A/N:_** _Thanks for taking this journey with me. Confession: I am not a McAbby person. I was long ago, and I drafted the outline for this story years ago (in season 7), but I only put all the pieces together in the last year so it stayed McAbby because that is how the story went._

 _Reminder: My original novels are available via the links on my FF profile page. I invite you to check them out if you enjoy my writing. They are nowhere near as long as this story—I promise. Those also have actual editing that occurs to them._

 _Thanks again, friends and readers. I enjoyed taking this trip with you._


End file.
